


Unlearning Old Answers

by eadunne2



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Steve Rogers, Avengers Family, Avengers Feels, Bruises, Bucky fights like a bad ass, Canon-Typical Violence, Consent, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Fundraisers, Happy Ending, Homelessness, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Loose interpretation of Stane, Love, M/M, Nat/Bucky bromance, Original Character(s), Philanthropy, Photographer Bucky Barnes, Running, Slow Build, Soldier Steve, Stark Tower, Swearing, Theft, UST, VA center, Veterans, art gallery, communication issues, knife tricks, mentions of canon typical physical and mental abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-03 22:30:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5309432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eadunne2/pseuds/eadunne2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve is an ex-soldier paying penance for the mistakes of his past. Bucky is beautiful and talented and hilarious and definitely, without a doubt, hiding something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s all art. Amber glancing off turquoise as his footsteps fall on the path. An ache in his calf does nothing to distract him, from the run or the beauty of the scenery. The buildings rise up, ivory bone in the distance and Steve smiles in spite of himself. 

_“See, Steve? Everything’s art.” His mother’s voice had always reminded him of church bells, but that day it hadn’t made him feel any better._

_“I’m not,” he’d said stubbornly, tugging at his cuffs where they hung huge and rough past his tiny wrists. Not a good look for a sixteen year old._

_“Oh my sweet boy. You are. Always have been.”_

He stumbles. Rights himself. Breathes deeply, though the smile is gone.

Keeps running. 

\--

The fucking Kuroda is missing. Not all of them, but the slot where Beyond the Rain once rested is blatantly, painfully empty. $2200 just walked itself out the door. 

“I literally build state of the art security systems for a living, Rogers. I’d be happy to hook you up.”

“Nah,” Steve sighs, running a hand over his face. “Your costs are a little steep, and besides,” he interrupts before Tony can start trying to bargain, “I’d like to try a little old fashioned detective work first.”

“You’re the guy for old fashioned, that’s for sure,” Tony grumbles. Steve absently scans the rest of the prints, just in case, and finds himself again so captivated by Kuroda’s work. Movement and simplicity. Understated. Lovely.

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” 

Tony ignores him. “You comin’ out on Saturday?”

“Um…”

“Steve! You promised! I sat you at the same table as that hot girl from Lincoln Investments. Come on, man-”

“Ok, ok, yeah, fine ok.” He’d told Tony weeks ago he’d go, and it was for a good cause. Besides. Tony was relentless. 

When they’d first met, Steve had spent the evening avoiding the guy, and thankfully failed, because while Tony was insufferable, he was also kind and genuinely interesting: Inventor extraordinaire, underground philanthropist, skin-deep douchebag. 

Steve has to admit, he likes the guy.

“You’re a dick,” he mutters into the phone. 

“True. And you’re a tightass. We’ve all got our roles.”

Steve huffs a laugh and checks the time. “I gotta go call in this theft.” 

“Who the fuck steals pictures of goddamn bikes? It’s really-”

“Goodbye, Tony.”

“Yeah, yeah, see you Saturday...fuckin’ crazy person…” he hears Tony in the background right before the sound cuts out. 

Sighing, he sorts through his contacts for Clint’s number. There are advantages to having friends on the force, but to be honest he hates taking advantage of this one.

He and Clint served together, and while they disagree on many things, they share a specific sense of justice. The punishment should always fit the crime, and intention and context matter. They have an unspoken agreement, so Steve always calls him first: Deal with the problem justly, which is not always legally. 

The risks don’t escape Steve, but he’s not comfortable with the alternative. The alternative got too many men killed, men in his care, and he’s already volunteering at the VA and a million other little offerings of penance in hopes that maybe he’ll escape the really deep circles of hell.

“Hey Clint. You got a sec?”

“For you Rogers, I got two. What’s going on?”

Clint knows Steve’s inventory and sale logs are impeccably accurate: tiny, neat, black letters crowded into rigid columns and rows, knows order is of the utmost importance to him, so when Steve says two paintings in the last three weeks have disappeared, he takes it seriously. Over $5,000 worth of merchandise, gone. Clint tells him his is not the only gallery to have things wander off recently, and Steve ends up frowning at the document Clint sends him. He recognizes some of the other stolen art, and some of the galleries from which it went gone missing. Damn shame. They sift through pertinent details, and Clint tries to no avail to get Steve to repair the security cameras.

“I’ll get to it soon.”

“I’m surprised your landlord doesn’t insist on it, honestly.”

Steve shrugs, though Clint can’t see it. “As long as the building is intact, I don’t think Stane gives a damn.”

“Slimy bastard,” Clint grunts, and Steve says, “Wow. Tell me how you really feel.” Whether Clint takes that literally or just doesn’t hear him, he continues.

“I don’t fuckin’ like him, man. We’ve got a shit load of unsolved cases piling up and a bunch of ‘em lead back to him.”

“So arrest him.”

“You know how money works, Rogers. Arrests never make it all the way up the food chain. He’s got hundreds of expendables, and he’s throwin’ ‘em the fuck away.”

“Jesus,” Steve mutters, furious, then startles as the shelf beneath his palm cracks where he’s gripping it. “Clint, you know if you ever need help with him, I’m in, right?”

“I know, Rogers. You itchin’ for a fight?”

Steve shrugs. “You got one for me?”

He hears Clint sigh and the scratching of fabric against the mouthpiece on the other end. “Nah. I kinda wish...but nah. Shit's been clear.”

“Damn,” Steve mutters, then gives a hollow laugh. He knows Clint understands. 

Back in the gallery, Steve perches at the front desk and surveys the room. The collection looks great, muted neutrals with splashes of color. The Kuroda’s that still hang in the gallery are mesmerizing, and Steve lets himself get lost for a moment before a couple comes in, arm in arm, and Steve gives them a smile. They slouch into one another, fitting together comfortably, and whisper as they walk. The guy leans down, presses the softest kiss into the girl’s hairline, then holds himself there for a moment, just breathing, looking like he’s found home in the scent of his girlfriend’s shampoo. It’s an intimate moment, completely vulnerable.

Steve’s face falls, and his usually military grade posture collapses in on itself, chest slumping back into his spine as he drops his elbows to the desk to stare resolutely at paperwork he’d completed days ago.

\--

Even Steve, who would much rather be home in his sweats sketching the skyline, has to admit that the fundraiser is pretty great. The venue is located in an industrial park but upon entry the building opens into spacious rooms with hardwood floors and rough, exposed brick. Twinkling yellow lights have been strung around the whole place, latticework on the ceiling and sweeping curves outlining the windows. The open bar is not bad either.

It’s swarming with beautiful people, richer than anyone should be, living lives far from the one Steve’s experienced, and it makes him so painfully lonely. He’s used to it, though, and tries not to dwell. There’s no way they could understand, and the void behind his sternum is a small price to pay for coming back from the dead like he did.

He’s good at these events, charming and personable, but it’s draining, and he’s exhausted from so much enthusiastic politeness. The desire to retreat into his shell is starting to swallow him up when something - someone - catches his eye.

Everything is art, after all.

The kid is laughing at something, head thrown back, mouth open, next to a tall man with dark hair who rubs Steve totally the wrong way, though if asked, he wouldn’t be able to tell you why. The kid though…

“Steve! You look fantastic!” 

He jumps a little, but hides it well. “As do you. Party’s a hit.”

Pepper nods. She’s sweet as pie, but not one to mince words, and Steve finds himself grateful for her candor when she asks, “How’re you holding up?” He gives her what he thinks might be his first genuine smile of the night.

“I’ll live. Thanks for asking.”

She leans in and whispers, “They’ve got Kavalan at the bar if you ask for it,” and Steve sighs with a smile. 

“Sounds great.” She’s a good one, Pepper.

With whiskey (he’d never buy for himself) in hand, he wanders, eyes dancing over the crowd for dark hair and long limbs. He stops and talks to a number of people but the interactions get more and more brief until he gives up pretense entirely and sneaks away from the event space, up a few flights of stairs, and out a window to perch on the landing of a fire escape and breathe in the cool night air.

Dropping heavy to the grate, he dangles his feet over the edge and leans against the bars. He’s not upset exactly, but his brain is too busy, rushing behind his eyes and refusing to settle, dancing around the face of that man from before...and then there were the stolen paintings...he needs to text Sam back….

There’s a click a few feet away and he jumps. “What the fuck?”

The beautiful man from before is perched on the fire escape outside the window down the wall a few rooms, and he lowers his camera to grin roguishly. “Hang on a sec.” 

He disappears back through the window, painfully graceful despite the formalwear, and before Steve can wrap his brain around what’s going on, he’s sticking his foot out through the window and onto the platform where Steve is still perched. “Much better,” he says as he straightens.

“What are you doing out here?” Steve asks. He’s sure there are more socially appropriate introductions but his brain is shutting down at the sight of him. 

“Knitting, obviously,” the other man says, unfazed, as he lights a cigarette. “You?”

“Escaping.” It’s the most honest thing Steve has said in years and he has no idea what’s gotten into him, but the guy’s face shifts, less flirtatious and softer, more genuine. Moving with ethereal silence, he slips his body to the landing not far from Steve, and holds out a hand. “James Barnes.” 

“Steve Rogers. Nice to meet you.” His life doesn’t usually work like this, dropping things he wants (almost literally) into his lap, and he’s torn between joy and wariness. 

“Hmm,” James says, staring out over the city before raising his camera back to his eye. “What are you escaping from?” 

“Small talk.” Steve blushes, hoping the comment won’t be misinterpreted. He’s so unfamiliar with this kind of truthfulness that it doesn’t even occur to him to censor himself.

“We’d better avoid that then. How do you feel about religion?” James is now peering at a shot displayed on the screen, but he glances up at the sound of Steve’s belly laugh and gives that soft smile again. He looks young, but there’s age in his eyes that comes only from the kind of experience that most people manage to avoid.

“Wow. Right to the tough stuff, huh?” At James’s shrug he continues. “Yeah, alright. I was raised Catholic.”

“Nice diversion, but ‘I was raised’ doesn’t tell me shit about you.”

Steve’s weirdly flattered at the kid’s persistence. “Alright, I’m agnostic. You?”

He nods, apparently satisfied with the answer. “Atheist. Next.”

“Um.” Steve tilts his head back to stare at the sky as he thinks. “If you could live in any city in the world, where would you go?”

“Here,” James says adamantly. Steve absolutely does not watch his lips as he exhales a thin stream of grey smoke into the cold air.

“Really?”

“My sister and I were born and raised here...besides, this city is fucking beautiful.” He gestures outward with his camera, eyes still scanning the horizon, and something about this guy makes Steve unable to control himself because he points to the camera and says, “Can I see?”

There’s a tiny furrow between the kid’s brows and suddenly, Steve’s heart is pounding. “I mean you don’t have to, I just… you know what, forget it, that was stupid-”

“Steve?”

“Hmm?”

James hands him the camera. “Shut up.”

It’s a small, generic digital, and there are dozens of photos, some in black and white, some in color, train trestles, benches in the park, sun glancing off windows, warm brick, the city through tender and artful eyes, and though they’re beautiful Steve finds that he’s hunching in on himself again, breath coming shorter through the ache in his chest.

The snapshots are so lonely. _He’s_ so lonely, this lovely man with the granite eyes, and Steve can see it in every frame, knows the awful weight of it, and it’s scraping him out from the inside. It has been since his Ma died he supposes, or maybe even before then, missing a dad that was never there, missing friends he never had…

“They’re not much-” James begins. Maybe he saw Steve’s face, misinterpreted the expression, because he sounds apologetic but Steve interrupts him so vehemently he looks momentarily shocked. 

“They’re fucking wonderful. I-” He has to stop, presses a palm hard into the center of his chest trying to keep his insides from spilling out, but the way the kid responds, gentle hand sliding up Steve’s wrist to take the camera back makes him feel like maybe they have an understanding. He doesn’t say anything, and when Steve glances sideways he looks so lost in thought, so far away, that Steve wonders if there will be any more conversation at all.

The stillness creeps in as they sit on the fire escape and listen to the traffic hum and whir, whispering patterns between the buildings until James snorts quietly and says, “Well, at least we avoided the small talk.”

“Fuck,” Steve chuckles, running a hand over his face. “That’s true. Thank god for that.”

“Speaking of which, you talked to Mrs. Conrardy yet?” The old woman is a generous benefactor, a regular at these events, and the champion of small talk. Steve makes it a general rule to avoid the shit out of her, but she’d blindsided him tonight. He groans.

“Yeah. Tony or Pepper usually notice and take pity on me, but tonight I had the distinct pleasure of hearing all about her dog.”

“I know more about that dog’s digestive tract than I know about my own,” James says shortly, and it makes Steve laugh. “Or how about her grandkid? The musician?”

“Oh my god. If I hear one more goddamn word about darling Brody…” he threatens lowly, and is rewarded by the sweetest sound: James’s gleeful chortle, and it feels like a goddamn gold medal. 

“Darling Brody...that’s fucking perfect.” He leans in, bumps his shoulder to Steve’s, and still grinning, turns his head. For a moment, the air around them freezes, the streetlamp light catches the shadow of James’s lashes, the lines of his cheekbones, the artful and unintentional way his hair falls forward over his brow. Steve hears his tiny exhale through still upturned lips and feels himself being filled up, a brightness in his gut, swelling.

The generic ringtone shatters the moment, but you would’ve thought it was a gunshot the way James reacts, flinching and then this sorrowful look darting behind his eyes before disappearing behind a broad, dazzling, and completely fake smile. 

“Sorry. I gotta get going,” he murmurs, slipping soundlessly to his feet and shoving his arms into his jacket. “It was a - uh - it was real nice meeting you, Steve.”

What that tightness in his tone is, Steve doesn’t know, but he extends his hand and says, “You too. Thanks for showing me your photos. They’re incredible.”

“Nah, it’s just a hobby, man-”

“James, fuck off. I loved them.” It’s not enough. Steve’s an artist, he should be able to articulate this. He could do a fucking portfolio analysis on this kid’s work. Should explain that his composition is flawless, his use of focus and distance speaks to years of experience, his choice in filter creates a damn dialogue between viewer and creator, not to mention they fucking break his heart, but none of that’ll come out, so he hopes James will read his mind once more and hear what he can’t say.

James’s smile breaks into something more genuine, goofy and sparkling, and Steve fucking _adores it_ , wants to see it every day for the rest of his life.

He’s so wrapped up in it he let’s the kid say, “Goodbye, Steve.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for mentions of assault and injuries  
> Translations in end notes

Sam’s staring at him, impressive considering they’re running what has to be their fifth consecutive 8 minute mile. 

“What?”

“What do you mean ‘what’? Did you hear a single word of what you just said to me? I mean shit, Rogers, when’s the wedding?”

“Shut the fuck up.” He’s barely winded but suddenly his chest feels tight.

Sam’s eyebrows soar up his forehead, but he lets the conversation go. “Clint said more paintings were stolen, you finally gonna let Tony install a goddamn security system?”

“Yeah, four more. And I am. Next weekend.”

“You still comin’ around to the VA this week?”

“Always do, don’t I?”

“You do. And I appreciate your help.”

They run in silence at least two more miles and Steve’s brain is a million light years away when Sam pants thoughtfully, “You know, a new friend might be good for you.” 

“A new frien - what the fuck is this, Sesame Street? I’m fine, Sam.”

He’s kicking Sam’s ass on this run, but the look his friend gives him makes him feel like he’s losing at _something_ , he doesn’t know what, and all Sam says is, “Yeah, alright.”

It’s a simple response. It haunts him for days. 

\--

“Hey man.” Clint’s voice is soft. “Got a project. Assaulted ten girls in two months and killed the last two. You don’t wanna know how he’s still walking this earth, but he is. You in?”

“Definitely.”

It’s one a.m. by the time the slimeball they’re looking for wanders into Clint’s crosshairs, and Steve drops from his fire escape perch silently. Despite their unorthodox methods they try to keep the kill rate low, so Steve disarms the three guys flanking their target and knocks them unconscious within thirty seconds of contact, then walks off into the night.

He hears a muffled shot. A splatter. A body hit the ground.

\--

The curve of the back of his neck is unmistakeable, and Steve is immediately concerned by the intimacy that knowledge belies. He hadn’t meant to memorize the guy’s body.

But there he is, the man with the tousled hair and bright eyes, looking lithe and almost too young in his black jeans and a baggy sweater. Occasionally, he looks up from the paintings he’s observing, eyes darting around, searching, but a few minutes later he stops in front of one of the new additions and freezes. Tucks his hands in the pockets of his jeans and rocks back on his heels. Tilts his head.

The painting is relatively near the front desk, so Steve can watch as his face goes all surprised, then almost angry, then relaxes into a sad smile, and Steve understands. It’s bewitching. He can’t help himself from saying, “It’s called A Long Road Home. Appropriate, no?”

James startles and when he sees Steve his face lights up, but when he glances down at Steve’s name tag denoting his role as the owner of the gallery something shatters in his eyes. He looks instantly so sorrowful Steve wants to weep, and then, in the cruelest move of them all, he neatly tucks all those feelings away behind a smile. “Steve Rogers.”  


“James Barnes.”

“Did you escape the fundraiser without too much more small talk?”

Steve grins. “Only barely. Much less tolerable without you.” He feels the blush spread across his cheeks and the corner of James’s mouth quirks up. “So. What do you think?”

“About?”

Gesturing awkwardly with his shoulder, he says, “The painting.”

“You chose it?”

“Well, I’m the gallery director…”

“Yeah,” James says, eyeing his nametag again, and he sighs deeply before turning his attention back to the painting. “Well, I - I’m not real great with words, Rogers.” Steve doesn’t say anything, just shrugs and waits. He’s not one to judge. 

_What do you think?_

He used to ask the question often as a child, sometimes of his mother, sometimes of teachers or the few and far between friend. The answers to that question are always very telling. 

But then he’d asked his history teacher in high school who, in retrospect, he was definitely in love with, about a sketch he’d found in a book in the library. He barely remembers the image, a man staring from the paper with poignant exhaustion, but Steve _knew_ that feeling, still knows it, and had wanted to share that moment of cosmic unity with someone. The teacher had frowned at the image for a moment before shrugging ambivalently, one of those pacifying smiles on his face, but it destroyed Steve. How could someone dismiss something with such power? He was embarrassed, but worse, he felt invisible. If Mr. Roberts couldn’t understand that sketch, he couldn’t understand Steve.

“It makes my chest hurt…but...maybe in a good way.” 

It’s not until James turns around to look at him that Steve realizes he’s just been standing there grinning. What a perfect answer. Like the man himself, making Steve ache, but in a good way.

“Which one’s your favorite?” James asks.

Steve scans the gallery for a long moment before saying, “There are a few, though my favorite work lately has been some photography, and it's not published anywhere…”

“Yeah? Who’s the photographer?” James looks like he might know where this is going, but he plays along.

“This asshole kid I know.” 

He huffs fake indignation, but he can’t quite stop smiling. “Sounds interesting.”

“And beautiful.”

“The kid or the photos?” James asks, voice getting soft underneath the cocky facade. 

Steve doesn’t break eye contact. “Both.”

With a toothy laugh that has no right to be as captivating as it is, James says, “Come on. Let’s get lunch.”

“Where?” he asks roughly, poorly disguising the surge of adrenaline sweeping through him.

“I know a place.”

“That’s not suspicious at all.”

“Trust me,” James says.

It freaks Steve out that he does.

They have to squint against the sun, but it’s worth it for the warmth soaking through their thin jackets. They bump shoulders as James makes Steve laugh with pithy little observations about the world around them, and Steve snarks back gently, and it’s the happiest either of them have been in decades.

“The fuck is that?” Steve says as they turn a corner into to a park, and Bucky gestures to a used-to-be-white-now-kinda-yellow trailer near the west side of the field. 

“Only the most perfect meal of your life,” James says, then, with horror, “Wait, you’re not vegetarian are you?” 

“No, why?” 

“Oh thank god.”

“James, why?”

James doesn’t answer, maybe just to be an ass, and Steve pauses to take a closer look at their lunch venue. There’s no menu or pricing, just a little blackboard propped up against the trailer that says, Comida Deliciosa.

“Marta!” James calls, and a tiny woman comes to the window, beams at them, then disappears again. 

“Hola, Bucky, cómo estás flaquito?” Her muffled voice is low and warm, and Steve has a brief flash of memory of his mother, flaxen hair and soft linen.

"Muy bien, ¡Gracias! ¿Cómo están tus hijos? Vi a Marissa, pero casi no la reconocí!”

“Si, yo se! Me estoy haciendo más vieja.”

“Nunca!” James hollers with a rambunctious grin, and embraces her as she comes around the side of the trailer.

“Flattery will get you everywhere, sweet boy.” She holds him at arm’s length then takes his jaw in hand, turning his face side to side. “Sanó bien.” 

James’s nods and places a palm over her hand on his face. “I’m fine, Marta.” His demeanor switches to gentle and sweet in the span of a breath and Steve wonders if maybe that’s who James really is all the time, underneath the bravado. The realization is so overwhelming that his shoulders flinch inward around the feeling and the movement catches Marta’s eye. “Who is this, flaquito?” 

“This is Steve Rogers. Steve, Marta Alcantara. She’s a...family friend.”

Marta holds out her hand and when Steve takes it she doesn’t let go right away, studying his face with an intensity that makes him want to hide, but he forces himself to stay present, to hold her eyes. After a moment, she graces him with a small smile and steps back. “Steve Rogers. Es un placer conocerte.” 

Steve quirks a brow at James, who answers the unasked question with, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

“Say it again?” Steve requests, and she repeats the phrase, delight spreading across her wide mouth. “Es un placer conocerte, Marta,” he says, tongue moving slowly around the new syllables, clumsy but correct. She beams at him, and he glances to James. There’s a moment of stillness, softness, and then he grins and shoves Steve’s shoulder. “You hungry?” 

Marta doesn’t let them order or pay, just sends them away with a paper bag full of what turns out to be a fuckload of tacos and a styrofoam cup filled with mayo, chili powder, cheese and lime mixed in with kernels of corn. At the bottom in a plastic baggy is a mango, hacked into bite sized pieces. James attacks that first, long fingers disappearing between sticky-shiny lips, and Steve searches desperately for a distraction.

“Did she call you Bucky?”

“Yeah,” he says with a laugh. “And you probably should too.”

He wants to ask where it came from but he’s too busy dying and ascending to food nirvana. “Holy shit this is delicious. What is it?” 

Bucky eyes the meat in the taco for a minute before waggling his brows and saying, “Lengua.”

“Which is?”

“Tongue.”

The devious look on Bucky’s face makes Steve laugh. “You can’t scare me off that easily,” and he takes another bite. A shadow flickers across Bucky’s face and Steve wonders how when the sky above is so bright. He wants the smile back, even the masking one, better than the sadness that jumps into Bucky’s expressions with too much regularity, so when Steve scoops some corn into his mouth and gets mayo on his nose, he pretends not to notice. 

It works. “You...uh, got something on your face,” Bucky mutters, trying not to grin as he hands over a napkin.

Steve delicately dabs at his mouth. “Got it?” 

“No, up a little…” His shoulders are starting to shake with glee, unconsciously egging Steve on. 

He swipes at his upper lip. “Gone?”

“No, gross, oh my god,” he laughs and Steve finally wipes the blob of mayonnaise off the tip of his nose, grinning. 

For almost an hour they sit there in the grass. Steve takes off his jacket and balls it up beneath his head, watching the sunlight flickering through the green of the leaves, planning a sketch for later. Bucky’s taking pictures, looking warm in his sweater, but he doesn’t roll up the sleeves much which is probably for the best as Steve needs a few minutes just to get over the bones of his wrists and the lines of his hands. 

Steve feels tingly and warm and sleepy, at home for the first time in decades, and the unfamiliar feeling sets loose a story he’d never tell otherwise.

“My ma used to take me to a park near our place when I was a kid. She’d always dress me in a shit ton of layers ‘cause I was always sick, so skinny I ended up being probably forty percent sweater. She’d make us a picnic out of white bread and ketchup she stole from her job, but she’d cut ‘em up all little and fancy and I felt like the coolest kid in the world. Barely noticed how dirt poor we were.”

“I know that feeling,” Bucky says softly, and Steve glances up to realize the camera is on him. He winks and Bucky huffs, but continues. “My ma’d make soup out of water and bouillon cubes, and carrots she nicked from the cart on the corner. I think the owner knew and was just too nice to say anything about it.”

“Yeah, people can be surprisingly decent sometimes.”

Bucky murmurs, “Sometimes,” and continues snapping pictures. 

It’s hard for Steve not to get caught up in the downward spiral of ‘you don’t deserve this’, but he tries, because Bucky is a good guy and he deserves a friend who is there with him, physically and mentally, not falling down the rabbit hole of innocences left in the hot desert sand.

Eventually they head back to the gallery, leftover tacos split between them, and something Bucky says a few blocks from their destination has them in stitches so bad that they have to stop outside the gallery door to calm down.

“Holy shit you’re an asshole.” Steve is still giggling and the words come out choppy, but Bucky’s not doing much better. 

“Fuck off,” he gasps, and for a moment, Steve forgets about how beautiful Bucky is in favor of the fact this guy is the closest thing to a friend Steve has _ever_ had. Looks like Sam was right. Why does this goofy kid feel like home?

When they can breathe again Steve says, “This is the most fun I’ve had in years.”

Bucky nudges Steve’s hip with his own. “Me too.”

Steve’s not trying to scare him off, gets the sense that there’s more going on beneath the surface, but he can’t help himself, can’t let this go to waste. “Think you could come by more often?”

His face falls, unmasked seriousness this time, and says, “Rogers...I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why?” Steve asks, voice getting rough with impending defensiveness.

“I’m just...I’m bad luck, man. I shouldn’t have even -” He scans the crowd around them, suddenly antsy. “-Done this today, I just...I like…” Steve can see him getting frustrated and reaches for his arm at the same time he says, “It’s been a long ass time since I could just _be_ , you know?”

“Me too,” is out of Steve’s mouth before he can stop it and he’s a little embarrassed, but Bucky is smiling up at him and Steve can feel the pull between them, surer than anything he’s ever known.

The moment is shattered by Aaliyah, sweet girl that she is, poking her head out the door. “Hey boss. It’s Tony, says he wants to talk to you about the security system.” 

“Shit, alright, thanks Aaliyah,” he responds with a smile, and takes the mobile that serves as the gallery phone before shifting back to James. 

He’s gone. 

Steve whirls around, but there’s no sight of him, just a trace of cologne. He dashes down the sidewalk. Faintly, from the phone vice-gripped in his hand, he hears Tony’s voice. 

“Hello? What the hell. Steve?”

\--

Then nothing, for weeks. Steve watches for him everywhere, whether he’s conscious of it or not, on his runs, outside the VA, especially at the gallery. He finds himself wondering what other works Bucky might like. Lonely like his photos? Or maybe bright swathes of color, brilliant like he is. 

“Wha’s with you?” Jim asks. 

Jim is one of the oldest vets at the center. He’s homeless and more than a little eccentric, but Steve genuinely enjoys his company, though for some reason today he’s dumb enough to try to lie to the old nutjob. 

“Nothing. Why?”

“Listen ‘ere you little fucker - ” Jim starts but Steve snorts and corrects himself.

“Sorry. Shit. Sorry.” 

Jim slurps his soup derisively and knocks one of Steve’s rooks off the board with his knight. “Wan’ try that again, boy?” 

Steve sighs and starts to speak, but Jim interrupts him. “You meet somebody?”

“Uh...yeah,” Steve says, surprise in his voice. “Kind of.” 

“You like ‘er?” Jim watches Steve shift in his seat and without batting an eye says, “You like ‘im?” 

Relief at escaping more coming out drama is quickly swallowed by all the complications of this situation. Twiddling a captured pawn between thumb and forefinger, Steve stares at the board. What’s he supposed to say? He barely knows Barnes. Doesn’t know what he does for a living, doesn’t know where he lives…

 _But you know he’s lonely_ , a voice in Steve’s head says. _You know he’s a brilliant photographer, has a great artistic sense. You know something shattered his belief in a higher power. You know he, too, has mastered the art of lying by omission. You know talking to him is easier than anything’s been in years. Talking to him makes you feel like maybe your whole heart isn’t going to fall out of your stomach every night before you go to bed. Talking to him makes you feel real again._

“Holy shit,” Jim says. “You in love with ‘im?”

“No! I don’t...no, Jim, we _just_ met. We’ve spent a grand total of like two hours together.”

“You look happy, thinkin’ ‘bout him,” Jim observes.

Steve starts to try to protest, but Jim gives him this stern look, not to be trifled with and says, “Listen ‘ere, boy. You been carrying that war on your shoulders since I known ya. Been missin’ your ma, mournin’ your friends, blamin’ yourself for every damn bad thing that’s ever happened around you an’ you need to cut that shit out. You alright. Might even be happy some day. Think on it, yeah?”

The base of the chess piece is digging into Steve’s hand where he’s gripping it too tight. “I...alright Jim. Thanks.”

The old man gives the briefest smile, kindness on the dark, wrinkled canvas of his face, then lets it go and leans forward, shaking the moment to rights. “Your move, fuckwit.”

\--

No more paintings go missing, but none are recovered. Steve doesn’t know if it’s the security system or if the thief just moved on. Maybe he got arrested. Regardless, Steve should be settling back into his day-to-day, and instead he’s alway shifting, moving, bouncing on the balls of his feet, staying up too late.

It’s the dreariest fucking day. The air is grey blue and so damp it seems like the rain hangs in it for an extra second before dropping to the ground. Weirdly, Steve loves days like this; They make him feel at home, embraced. The gallery’s been slow all day, but he’s been hunched at his desk under the calm yellow rays of a little lamp he’d taken from his ma’s old place, sketching furiously. There’s a cafe across the street and there are always interesting characters to hypothesize about: who are they, where are they going, who are they with, why that hat, that coat, that expression?

It’s when he glances up to check if the girl in the purple coat is still standing under the awning, peering out for her cab, that he sees the face in the gallery window beneath the black cursive lettering. Dark circles around the eyes, one darker, a shiner, fresh. A split lip still leaking blood down his chin, though from the looks of it, he doesn’t notice. Probably thinks it’s rain. Mussed hair, not the sexy kind, though that man will look beautiful in any condition, Steve thinks. Bucky’s jaw twitches when he catches sight of Steve, and it’s that little gesture of tension that unfreezes him from his desk perch, and he dashes to the door and rips it open.

Bucky sees him coming and backs away, slowly at first but by the time Steve’s in the threshold he’s walking quickly, stumbling. “Buck! Wait!”

The kid’s almost running by now, and maybe Steve would’ve let him go, but he trips and cries out, grasping his side and Steve remembers what broken ribs feel like. 

The worry makes him harsh. “Goddamn it! Would you fucking stop?” he calls, and it works, sort of, Bucky stays down in a crouch on the pavement until Steve helps him up. 

The kid is clearly grinding his jaw, but Steve breaks their staring contest in favor of getting him in out of the rain. “Come on,” he says tightly and turns back to the gallery. For some insane reason, Bucky follows. 

Steve flips the open sign to closed and locks the door when they reenter before leading Bucky to the back. “You can take off your coat and sit on the desk,” he says shortly, and Buck complies abruptly, hanging his coat on the hook hidden behind the door while Steve digs in his desk and pulls out the med kit. It’s from his time in the service and he doesn’t miss the way James blinks at it, then looks away. 

Steve nudges Bucky’s knees open with one hip and steps in to clean up his face. The skin is split on his left cheekbone where the shiner is blooming, and his right eyebrow, so Steve starts there. As he swabs he says, “You alright?” If Bucky hears the tightness in his voice, he gives no indication, just shrugs at the comment. “Haven’t seen you around lately.” Another shrug. “Why’d you take off so fast last time?” 

Shrug. “Had somewhere to be.”

“Really,” Steve says, tone clearly disbelieving. “And if you shrug one more time, so help me god-”

Bucky actually laughs at that though it’s hollow and he winces immediately after. He holds completely still until his face is cleaned up, silent.

Steve stares him down for a minute before saying, “Lemme take a look at your ribs.”

“They’re just cracked.”

“Got experience with cracked ribs?”

“You clearly do,” Bucky bristles.

Steve shrugs and grabs an ice pack from the fridge. “Scrawny kid then soldier. ‘Course I do.” 

Bucky shifts uncomfortably under Steve’s scrutiny. “I’m bad news, Rogers. You really should pick better friends.”

Steve tries to no avail to ignore the pulse of joy in his chest at the word ‘friends’, but manages to keep it from his face. “Why, ‘cause you showed up on bleeding on my doorstep?”

“I’m...not a good person, Steve,” he says quietly, but with the utmost sincerity. “I’m being serious. I owe bad people big favors, and if you got hurt because of me…” 

Steve huffs. “I’m a big boy. Let me make my own decisions. Now take off your damn shirt so I can check your ribs.”

Bucky reminds Steve of a skittish colt, as he nervously sucks the injured lip into his mouth to prod with his tongue for a minute, then complies. 

He’s a wreck. 

Bruises run along one side of his torso, and clear handprints around his arm, twice, strong fingers with rings on the second and third, so large they left marks. 

“Fuck,” Steve exhales, and Bucky shrugs and holds out his hand for the icepack. Steve’s concern seems to irritate him.“It’s fine man. I’ve had worse. Besides, it’s my fault.”

“What the hell, Bucky? Your fault? Who did this to you?” His voice is shaking with anger but Bucky snatches the ice pack from his hand and slides off the desk, grabbing his shirt as he goes. 

“Look, it doesn’t matter Rogers, and I can take care of myself.” 

“Yeah, clearly.” He’s so fucking exhausted and didn’t even realize it. “Bang up job your doing.” He regrets the words immediately, and Bucky freezes, shame and weariness and anger adding years to his face, then he drops the shit in his hands and socks Steve square in the jaw.

Steve’s teeth crack together as he stumbles backward into a filing cabinet just in time to block another with a raised forearm. It hurts like a bitch. 

“Fuck you - piece of shit,” Bucky punctuates his profanity with effective blows. He’s trained, has to be with precision like that. “Think you - know so goddamn - much -” 

With a shove Steve frees himself from the corner. “Ok, shit, Bucky I’m sorry!” 

“I didn’t fuckin’ ask for your help!”

Steve tries to push him away, but it’s not working, the kid just keeps punching. He lands a blow to Bucky’s shoulder and then his stomach and Bucky gasps but doesn’t drop his hands. He’s a fuckin’ machine, but Steve doesn’t want to fight him, didn’t want it in the first place and he says as much. “Stop! Please! Shit, I don’t want to do this!”

Bucky recoils and drops his hands. There’s no remorse in his face, only icy blankness. “See? Not a good person.”

“I don’t fucking care!” Steve bellows and it’s not what he had planned but it does make Bucky drop the wintery expression in favor of surprise. “If that’s the fucking qualification then we’re both fucked!” He tears his dog tags from under his shirt and holds them up to clink together in the dim light. “I got men _killed_ , Buck. Slaughtered like animals in a foreign country, couldn’t even give some of ‘em proper burials because we couldn’t find all their _pieces_ ,” he sneers. “You think you’re so fucked up? You got blood on your hands?” It’s a shitty game to play, whose sins are darker, and Steve doesn’t want either of them to win, but he needs him to understand. 

Bucky tucks his hands in his pockets, hunches his shoulders, and softly says, “Yes.” 

Steve frowns, anger draining away. Yes? What the fuck kind of people does he owe? As the other man crouches to retrieve the items he’d thrown down Steve realizes there are scars all over his back, silver-pink against tan skin. They’re old. Years old. 

This is so fucked.

“Buck, I’m sorry,” Steve finally says. “I know you can take care of yourself. And... if you can’t tell me about your shit...I don’t need to know. Just…fuck. I’d just like to be your friend.” 

There’s no immediate response. Bucky lets himself into the bottom drawer of Steve’s desk to get the scissors, lucky first guess of location, and returns to the first aid kit to retrieve the gauze. He’s breathing shallow and a little hard through his nose, holding his torso rigid so as not to disturb his ribs. 

But then he speaks, and Steve hears the question behind it. The offer.

“Help me wrap my ribs. I can’t reach around with the fracture.” He holds out the gauze, the ice pack, the scissors. He holds out an offer of friendship, eyes nervous and hopeful, aware he’s offering a world of complications along with it. 

Steve takes it all, with a sigh of relief so deep he thinks it shakes some weight off his bones. 

“Sure, Buck. I got you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Hola, Jaime, como estas flaquito?” - Hi, James, how are you, skinny boy?  
> "Muy bien, ¡Gracias! ¿Cómo están tus hijos? Vi a Marissa, pero casi no la reconocí!" - Great, Marta, thanks! How are your kids? I saw Marissa but I almost didn’t recognize her!  
> “Si, yo se! Me estoy haciendo más vieja.” - Yes, I know. I’m getting old.  
> “Nunca!” - Never!  
> Sanó bien. - “It healed well.”  
> \--  
> A long road home:  
> http://www.j2gallery.com/store/artists/bruce-holwerda/reproductions/a-long-road-home


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for canon typical violence.  
> There's some angst here but things get better :)

“‘M thinkin’ of starting a new series,” Bucky says through a mouthful of food. 

“Didn’t you learn any damn manners?” Steve grunts, and Bucky responds with an open-mouthed grin before speaking as widely as possible. “What’dya mean?” 

“Disgusting,” he grumbles before asking, “What the series gonna be?” 

“Portraiture. Somethin’ so powerful about that shit, you know? It’s storytelling without a single word. You gave me the idea, actually.”

“Me?” Steve inhales his milkshake so fast it gives him brain freeze. “What’d I do?”

“That picture from the park.” Bucky’s staring off into space and speaking absently, lost in thought. Steve know’s he’s planning his photos, framing them, filtering and editing, watching them flash by in his head. Steve does the same with his art. “You looked sexy as fuck, but sweet, too, you know? Approachable.”

Steve is certain his face is scarlet. “Jesus, Buck.”

“What?” he asks, coming back to the present. “I call ‘em like I see ‘em, Rogers.” He’s getting to his feet and Steve follows after, clearing his trash from the picnic table and dumping it into a nearby bin. “Where are you headed now?”

“Volunteering at the VA.”

“On a Saturday? Are you even fuckin’ real?” Bucky asks roughly, but one corner of his mouth is twitching up and there are crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

“No. I’m your imaginary friend,” Steve gripes, brushing off his jeans.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “That explains a lot,” he mutters, then, “What’re you gonna do?”

“Depends on what they need. My friend Sam is in charge of a bunch of programs there, so I just help him out where I can. Make food sometimes, or do paperwork. Mostly I just hang out with the guys, play chess or cards or draw for them. There are some interesting characters.”

There’s a long pause. “Can I - uh - come with?” Bucky asks, and when Steve looks up from zipping his coat Bucky looks weirdly sheepish.

“Sure, don’t see why not. I’ll text Sam, let him know to expect us.”

Immediately, Bucky’s real smile sweeps his face and he bounces up next to Steve as they head towards the subway. “Cool.” 

They’re silent for most of the ride, and Steve realizes it’s so quiet because Bucky’s fallen asleep on his shoulder. Shampoo and cologne and cigarettes and mint...he smells like heaven, like home, but that’s not for Steve, not for anyone with his track record, someone so sweet and rough and kind and funny, never mind his own indiscretions.

So he stares out the window, lets the world flash by in frames and tries not to get too lost in thought. It doesn’t work, never does, but the warm weight pressing into him keeps him from flying apart.

Sam greets them at the back door. “Steve, good to see you man. You must be James. I’m Sam. Thanks for helping out today.” He’s got a gentle way about him, like someone might move to keep from spooking an animal, and Steve’s grateful. Bucky puts up a hard front, but the damage lies close to the surface. 

“Thanks for having me.” 

Leading them into the building, Sam explains over his shoulder, “I’m gonna have you guys with the vocational training today, they’re doing this fucking building project and I’m afraid someone’s gonna go ape with a staple gun or some shit.”

Laughing, Bucky asks, “Is that typical?” Sam shrugs. “Kinda. Ask Steve. He’s had some adventures here.”

“Like what?”

“He got punched by a guy because he wouldn’t give him extra pie.”

“What?” Bucky’s still giggling. “Who withholds pie though, Rogers?”

“There wasn’t going to be enough for everyone,” Steve protests, but he’s pretty sure he’s grinning too hard for anyone to believe he’s really upset.

“Anyway,” Sam cuts in, and gives Steve a suspicious glare before continuing. “I’ll get you guys set up and leave you to it.”

And he does. Sam introduces them to the guy in charge who invites them to wander around and find a place they might be needed. It’s mostly old dudes today, and Steve’s a little worried that it’ll freak Bucky out. They tend to care less about social niceties than the younger guys and can be a little abrasive, but in fact, the opposite happens. Bucky breaks away from Steve’s side, and approaches one of the regulars.

“Elijah?”

“Barnes?” The guy looks torn between anxiety and interest. Why would Bucky make him nervous?

Buck sits down next to him and gently lays a hand on his arm. “It’s James, ok? Unofficial business today, Elijah. Just here with my friend. Helping out.” The guy breathes the tension out of his shoulders and nods, but doesn’t respond, still wary until Bucky graces him with that soft smile, hopeful and genuine and kind, and the old guy says, “Could use a fuckin’ hand with these damn screwdrivers. The hell they make ‘em so small for?”

Chuckling, Bucky holds out a hand and gets right to work, but Steve can tell how relieved he is. He’d sell his right arm to hear how the two of them know one another, and what the fuck ‘official business’ was if this is unofficial, but knows nothing good would come of asking.

Almost a month has passed since their fistfight in gallery storage room, and Steve figures it’s about as normal as it’ll ever get. They see each other only every once in awhile, when Bucky finds his way to the gallery. He’s busted up sometimes, and won’t say shit about it, and Steve tries to let it go, even though every bruise, every gash makes him ache, and wonder who could get the best of someone so fierce. It’s still good though, better than anything else in Steve’s life right now and for years. He wonders if it’s a one sided sentiment.

“That’s him, innit?” Jim says over Steve’s shoulder, and he jumps.

“Shit, Jim, you trying to give me a heart attack?”

Jim doesn’t let it slide. “Innit?”

Steve briefly debates lying about it, but his bruises from Bucky only just faded and he’s not looking for any more. “Yeah.”

“’E looks familiar but I can’t place it,” Jim murmurs contemplatively before shrugging and turning away. “Come help me with this damn thing. I swear, my hands were steadier when I was still a damn drunk,” he grumbles and Steve joins him at the table near the window.

It shouldn’t be relaxing; There are crotchety, senile, ex-military weirdos wielding power tools, but it’s one of the nicest afternoons Steve has spent in a while. Bucky smiles at him from across the room, and Jim tells some good stories. Light shines in through the huge windows, warm and soft, and the room smells like coffee and raw wood. It’s peaceful.

Maybe too peaceful, because Steve lets his conversation with Jim lapse for a while, the two of them working side by side in silence until Jim finally says, quieter than Steve is used to, “I loved a girl once.”

Startled, Steve stares at him for a moment, but Jim doesn’t look up from where he’s gluing two thin sheets of wood at a right angle, so he stays silent, waiting.

“Before the war, it was so damn good. We laughed a lot. When I came back it wasn’t the same though. Too much had changed, so we let go. Still dunno if it was a good thing or a bad one. But you know what I miss most?”

“What?” Steve whispers, spellbound. 

“Some’un who sees me. Really sees. I couldn’t lie to that woman to save my life. Obviously,” he adds with a bitter chuckle. “‘S nice though, to have someone call your bullshit..”

Steve nods. “I’m sure.” He’s not trying to prompt Jim, or steer him. “Why’re you telling me this?”

Jim turns a deadpan glare at him and then slaps him in the back of the head. 

“Ow, what the fuck, Jim?”

“Listen, you fuckin’ idiot. I’m tellin’ you cause you got some’n that sees you and you won’t let ‘im in. You’re always keeping up appearances aren’t you? Gotta be the man you want them to see, not the scared little boy who died in Iraq and came back a man, right? Well he sees it all, boy-o, and you’re too busy try’na carry a cross that wasn’t yours to begin with.”

Steve’s jaw is on the floor for longer than he’d like to admit before he says, “You don’t understand.”

“The fuck don’t I understand, boy?”

“Bucky’s got...I dunno what, he won’t tell me...skeletons in the closet or some shit-”

“Damnit Rogers, you do too-”

They’d been whispering, but Steve loses his cool. “I know that!” A couple people glare at him and Bucky looks over, eyebrows quirked in and up, so Steve deflects with a smile and leans back in. “I know I do. But he’s the one who’s keeping _me_ at a distance.”

“You ever tell him ‘bout your shit?”

“The fuck would I say? ‘Hey I’m a no account kid from Brooklyn who went overseas with something to prove and got a ton of people killed? Wanna fuck?’”

He’s trying to make a joke of it, hollow though it may be, but Jim doesn’t take the bait, and instead replies with seriousness, “Yeah. Somethin’ like that.”

Steve sighs bitterly. “Yeah, right. Thanks but no thanks. I’ve got like three friends in the whole fucking world, and I don’t wanna scare them away if it’s all the same to you.”

Jim goes back to his work. “You got a lot more than that, Steve, if you had the balls to see it.”

It might have turned into an all out brawl. Steve would like to think he’s not the kind of guy to punch an old dude, but his patience is a heartbeat from gone, when Sam says, “Hey, Steve, can I borrow you for a minute?” and nods towards the coffee pot.

“You good?” Sam asks as he pours them both styrofoam cups of battery acid.

“Yeah, why what’s up?”

Sam doesn’t answer right away. “Bucky seems nice.”

“He is,” Steve affirms.

“He’s a good worker.”

“Yeah, I’m not surprised.” 

“You like him.”

“Sure, he’s a nice kid.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”

This conversation is not happening. It’s completely unfair for Steve to have to acknowledge his feelings when they’re absolutely never going to come to fruition, so he glares into his cup until Sam changes the subject.

“So, I might have some more work for you real soon.”

“Yeah? What’s up?” He grimaces through a mouthful of the coffee and immediately takes another swig.

“I think we’re gonna open up a new location.”

“What? Sam, that’s great!” 

“Yeah,” Sam says, grinning. “We still need a ton of money, but the plans are set, we’re working on buying the land...I’m hoping to turn it into a shelter and community center, get these guys off the streets and back into their neighborhoods. But it’s gonna take some doing. You in?” He looks hopeful, but it’s clear by the slope of his shoulders that he understands the weight of the undertaking, that it could just as easily bleed him dry and bury him alive. Steve loves that about Sam. He’s all action and muscle, with the heart to back it up. 

“Of course. Whatever you need.”

“Fuck yeah, awesome, thanks.” 

“Steve, you ready to go?” Bucky says from over his shoulder. He’s got his hands tucked in his jacket pockets, but he looks relaxed and happy. It makes Steve want to kiss him so damn bad.

“Yeah, Buck.” Two hours come and gone already. Damn.

“Thanks for your help today,” Sam says, then, “Oh! Steve, could you talk to Obe Stane at some point, at one of those damn fundraisers or something? Just...sweet talk him. Our building permit is seriously taking forever, and it’s hard to get investors when there’s no guarantee of a return. Money talks, and he’s good at smoothing things over, maybe he could help us out.”

“No problem man. There’s an event in a few weeks. If he’s there, I’ll talk to him.”

“Thanks, Steve, I appreciate it.”

Coffee refilled for the road, Steve turns back around to Bucky, who’s standing stock still and is weirdly gray. “Buck? You ok?”

The masking smile doesn’t do a damn thing this time, just contorts his beautiful face into something like a sneer. “Yeah, fine. Why?” Steve takes his arm and leads him out into the early evening. 

Bucky’s quiet most of the ride back to their neighborhood, other than thanking Steve for the day, and though he’s talking again by the time they get off the train Steve can tell something’s off.

“I’ll see you around, yeah?” Steve says, and Bucky nods, eyes dull in a way that makes Steve want to cry. 

“Yeah, Stevie. I’ll see ya.”

He flips up his jacket collar and starts to walk away in the direction of what Steve assumes is his apartment when Steve just breaks open. “Wait.” He barely recognizes his own voice. “Buck, wait.”

The kid turns back to him, lip red from where it’s been caught between his teeth and Steve grabs him around the shoulders yanks him into an embrace. Bucky stays stiff but Steve can’t help himself, he presses a kiss to Bucky’s temple. With too much emotion he says, “Take care of yourself, ok?”

Bucky sighs out the air in his lungs to shape their bodies together. Steve can feel where Buck is fisting the back of his leather jacket in a vice grip, and he squeezes for one heartbeat, two, and then Bucky is pulling back, regret flashing in his eyes before he tucks it away. 

“You too, Rogers,” he murmurs with a smile that looks exhausted, and walks off into the fading light.

\--

He catches sight of himself in one of the floor-to-ceiling windows and is still shocked, over a decade later. For as broad as he is now, he didn’t hit puberty until almost eighteen years old. Spending his teen years as a skinny, sickly, punk of a kid was formative to say the least, and he internalized that fight never flight mentality but also the ceaseless self-consciousness. How am I seen? What do people think they know about me?

Now that he looks the way he does, that self-consciousness manifests differently. He wonders if people are using him, if they like the thoughts in his mind or the line of his shoulders. Wonders if his good fortune has been hard work or good luck. 

Tony’s introduced him to almost a dozen beautiful women tonight, and he smiles politely and doesn’t flirt with a single one. As the most recent girl wanders off, he mulls over the fact that he hasn’t seen Bucky in almost two weeks, and it’s done nothing to ease that itch, that need. He’s under Steve’s skin. 

And also, across the room at the bar.

Bucky’s usually dressed in baggy tees and leather jackets, dark wash skinny jeans and boots. And the first night they met, he wore tailored slacks and a beautiful button up.

Tonight, he’s in a tux. Everything from his tie to his shoes is black, and his hair is styled away from his face.

What is he doing here? Is he working? Whatever the hell that is?

He looks exquisite, though Steve doesn’t miss the way his eyes flutter when no one’s looking, so exhausted he has to rest his public persona when he gets the chance. It makes Steve want to take him home and put him to bed, and not even in the sexy way. He wants to make him tea and bathe him and wrap him in a quilt and hold him until his breathing evens out and then keep him there in his arms. 

It’s not something he should want, and he tries to put it out of his mind.

“Does he know you love him?” says a soft voice, accented and lovely, and it belongs to a beautiful woman in a navy blue dress and dark soft hair piled high atop her head.

“I - uh - what?” he says, and she laughs.

“That was a bit forward wasn’t it? Apologies. I’m Peggy.”

“Steve,” he offers, along with his hand. “And yeah it was, and no, he doesn’t, because I’m not. We only just met a few weeks ago.” 

The no-bullshit stare she gives him is unnerving, and but then the edges smooth into something closer to pity. “Oh dear. You truly believe that, don’t you?” He doesn’t know how to respond, so he shoves his hand into his pockets and shrugs, and she lays a pacifying hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.” After a pause she says, “You own the art gallery, yes?” 

Grateful for the familiar ground, Steve nods. “Yeah.”

“You’ve rather made a name for yourself, I must say. Quite the reputation.”

“Have I?” he asks, amused. “What is it?”

She hums with a smile for a moment before saying, “Strong but silent. An American hero. Giving to a fault. Savvy businessman. And clearly an idiot.”

A laugh escapes without his permission. “What?”

“That last one may have been a personal observation,” she says, not the least bit sheepishly. “The rest though, is fairly common knowledge.”

“You’re crazy,” he says with a shake of his head and she nods. 

“It’s been said.”

“What do you do, anyway?”

“I work for the Secretary of Defense.”

“Doing…?”

“I’m afraid it’s classified.”

“I’m guessing if you told me, you’d have to kill me?”

“Something like that,” she responds with a smirk. “Anyway, you should go talk to him. He looks lonely.”

“He always looks like that,” Steve says before he’s thought it through, and in the following mental paralysis Peggy responds, “Yes, well, so do you. Might want to do something about that. Have a lovely night Steve.” Her knowing smile is burned into the back of his mind as he watches her walk away, the line of her spine captivating in the soft light of the ballroom. 

Even more captivating, though, is the way Bucky looks, leaning on the bar, chin in hand. A lock of hair has sprung free and tumbled down his forehead, and the urge to comb fingers up and through to lay it back is so strong it takes Steve the whole damn trip across the room to convince himself not to.

“You should get more sleep,” he says softly, but Bucky startles anyway. 

“Ok, dad,” Bucky gripes with an eyeroll. The grin he gives Steve is unsurprised, so he must’ve seen him earlier, but it’s also fake as hell and makes Steve’s chest ache dully as he slides onto a stool at the bar. 

There’s silence between them as Steve orders them drinks, broken only when Buck says, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Fuck off,” Steve murmurs, sipping on his whiskey, then, “Haven’t seen you in a minute. You been ok?”

“Peachy,” he mutters shortly and swishes liquor through his teeth.

“Bucky…”

“You here for Tony?” he interrupts.

“Yeah, why’re you?” Steve counters.

The lack of response has Steve looking up to see Bucky looking like maybe he’s having a panic attack; his eyes are wide and every muscle is rigid. “Whoa. Buck. Relax,” Steve says. He can see where the deep pulls of breath are sucking the skin into his clavicle, and he scoots over almost imperceptibly to rub a hand over Bucky’s lower back. “It’s ok. Slow down. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

His mouth trembles as he glances up at Steve, and he looks so conflicted, vulnerable and ancient. “You don’t understand, Stevie,” he says, but Steve can see the pulse point in his throat and watches the beat slow slightly as he calms. 

“Don’t have to, Buck,” he responds, sweeping his palm up the other man’s spine and back down. “You’re my friend. I’m here.” _I’m yours._

They both kill their drinks and order another, and Bucky doesn’t say anything about Steve’s hand so he doesn’t move it. Half way through their second, Bucky says, “You look good tonight. In that tux.”

Steve can feel the pleased blush spread across his face and that joy-adrenaline accelerating his heart. “Thanks. You do too. Incredible, actually.”

“Rogers,” Bucky scoffs, but his voice is a little raw. Neither of them are looking at one another, too nervous with the moment to risk it being real but Steve just barely catches Bucky’s reflection in the mirror behind the bar. It goes from fond and tired to absolutely terrified when Obe Stane sidles up and places a drink order. Steve remembers feeling it in the desert, the need to bolt. Except instead Bucky leans in towards Steve minutely and places a hand on his knee, squeezing so hard it almost hurts. Protective.

Steve flinches and Bucky stands abruptly, disappearing into the crowd. Stane notices Steve staring and smiles toothily, light glinting off his rings and weirdly bald head. Clearing his throat, he tries to hold still, tries not to whip around and scour the room for where Bucky’s gone. He’s got a job to do.

“Obe Stane?”

“Steve Rogers,” he says, and damn is Steve getting tired of hearing his own name. 

“Yeah, hey, I was wondering if I could talk to you about a project through the VA. We could really use your support.”

“Really? What project?” Obadiah Stane is a weird dude, Steve’s always been aware of that, but until now he’s never bothered to figure out why. As they talk, Stane comes off completely normal. He’s bald and well dressed, but other than the large rings on his right hand, he’s rather unremarkable in appearance.

But something is...off. Maybe it’s Clint’s opinion of him creeping into Steve’s mind. Maybe it’s the way Bucky freaked at the sight of him. Whatever the reason, by the end of the conversation, Steve feels completely off balance, like maybe he just started something he won’t be able to stop. 

\--

It’s late, probably close to three in the morning. Steve let Tony drag him to an afterparty and got caught up in a violently competitive game of darts. It was a good time, and he’s a tiny bit drunk, but the weird feeling of _wrongness_ just won’t leave him alone. His path home takes him near the gallery and in an effort to appease the cloud of nervous energy following him, he swings by to double check the alarm system. 

“He told you -” A male voice grinds out from the alley ahead, and there’s a sick thud of boot-into-gut. “To stay the fuck away from him.”

“Please-” The word is a wet gasp, air and blood, and Steve takes off running. He’s not moving particularly quietly, and the assailant must hear him because he’s hauling ass towards the opposite side of the alley and into the night as Steve turns the corner. He might have gone after the guy except for when he sees the man crumpled on the ground, he skids to a stop and reflexively turns to puke behind the dumpster.

It’s Bucky.

The instant he’s done showering the blacktop with about seven shots of whiskey and the remnants of dinner, Steve throws himself down next to the other man. “Buck, can you hear me?”

One eye is swollen shut but the other blearily focuses and Bucky whispers “Steve?” His body goes suddenly rigid, and he tries to sit up “Is he still here?”

Steve’s worried he’ll injure himself further and he catches the kid under one arm to steady him. “No, he’s gone. You’re ok. You’re safe.”

A broken laugh escapes Bucky’s throat, then another, but the next one sounds more like a sob and he shakes his head and tries to struggle to his feet. “I gotta - “ he starts, but doesn’t finish, can’t speak through gritting his teeth at the pain.

“Lemme take you to the ER,” Steve says but Bucky flinches away from him. 

“No!” he pants. “No hospitals.” He falls back against the wall and digs into his pocket with the hand not clutching his ribs. “I just live...around the...is fine, Steve…” His words are halting and increasingly tense from the pain but he stops and looks up. “Please. No hospitals...they’ll know…”

“Know what? Bucky if you have a collapsed lung -” 

He inhales deeply. “I don’! Please…” and then he passes out, wallet and keys falling to the pavement but Steve catches his body as it falls.

With the kid in his arms, Steve wracks his brain. He’s gotta get him stable, inside, dried off, needs to assess his injuries but he trusts Bucky’s judgement. If he says no hospitals…

Steve pins him to the wall to stoop and pick up the fallen wallet and keys, and as he does gets a look at the address on Bucky’s license, only a block or so from where they are. He lived this close to the gallery the whole time? 

It solves the problem though, and Steve hopes beyond hope that no one is out on the street; Even he’s not charming enough to explain this one away. Somehow, magically, they get lucky and make it to Bucky’s apartment complex without anyone calling the police. Unlocking the deadbolt with a body in his arms is actually the worst part, but eventually he gets the door open and staggers in to lay him on the couch. 

Bucky’s out the whole time Steve crashes around the small apartment for first aid supplies, and while Steve strips him down to boxers to get a good look at his injuries, and while he cleans the lacerations on Buck’s face and chest. He comes to while Steve is sewing closed the gash on his shoulder, right as the final knot is being tied, eyelashes fluttering. 

“Wha-”

“Shh relax Buck. You’re fine, you’re home.”

The kid stiffens, looking flustered, but the tension is too much for his battered body and he slumps back down into the cushions. “No hospitals,” he whispers, and Steve nods. 

“No hospitals,” Steve confirms. “I’m gonna put some ice on your ribs ok? Just for a few minutes.”

Bucky doesn’t reply, but his eyes are open a little so Steve figures he heard, and sets the bag of frozen peas wrapped in a dish towel gently down on his bruises. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, and Steve winces for him. “Sorry.”

“‘S ok. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Steve replies, shrugging and he starts to stand, collecting the various supplies strew on the floor when cold fingers circle his wrist, stopping him short with surprising force. Bucky stares him down, completely lucid now, and says with soft sincerity. “Steve. Thank you.”

Steve has to swallow a few times before he responds. “You’re welcome, Buck.” 

The kid still doesn’t let go. He looks weirdly nervous, and sad, and in unimaginable pain, so when he says, “Stay here. Please,” Steve doesn’t hesitate before sliding down to the floor, back to the couch, and by the time he gets comfortable, Bucky is out again.

But Steve is a man of his word. He stays, moving only to piss and grab food from the kitchen. Otherwise, he’s slouched on the carpet, leaning near Bucky’s hip. He sleeps. For a while he surfs WebMD for possible additional injuries Bucky might be suffering from. He eats peanut butter on bread, and washes it down with beer from the fridge. He texts Aaliyah to open the gallery. Sleeps again. And then, around ten a.m. that next day, he starts to draw. Rough ovals and hatch marks shift slowly into more defined shapes, and soon, her face emerges. 

She was so damn beautiful it seems ridiculous to try and capture it, but he does alright, mostly because he’s been drawing her for decades. He finishes quickly, rips it from the notebook, lets it fall to the floor, and starts another one. Another face. A friend from overseas. A friend who’s just a headstone now. A sketch of Sam, sprinting so fast he’s practically flying off the pavement, then another, and it’s not until he glances up to double check the shape of Bucky’s eye that Steve realizes he awake again.

“Mornin’,” he says softly, entranced by the way the light traces Bucky’s features.

“You stayed.” His voice is rough from sleep, and he winces as he shifts. Steve shakes a few painkillers into his palm and hands him a glass of water. The surprise in his voice knifes at Steve’s gut a little, not because Bucky thought _he’d_ leave, but that Bucky thought everyone would.

“Said I would, didn’t I?”

Buck doesn’t answer, instead staring at the drawings on the floor as he knocks back the pills. “You’re good,” he says, and Steve shrugs off the compliment. 

“How’re you feeling?”

“Like I got the shit kicked outta me.” He draws a shaky breath though, and pushes himself up a little to sit propped against the arm of the couch.

Nodding, Steve turns back to the drawings. “Can I get you anything?” He wants to tear something apart. Want’s to interrogate Bucky, find the guy that did this, and kill him slowly. 

He gets lost in that thought for a good minute before he looks back up to see Bucky looking nervous, eyes darting down the hall.

“Nothin.”

“Buck. What do you need?”

“I just...I gotta piss.”

Ah. Steve helps him up, let’s the kid lean into him as they walk. He moves stiffly, except when he reaches out abruptly to close one of the bedroom doors with a snap. It looks like it hurts, but he doesn’t say anything about it, so Steve ignores it as well. When he’s done, Steve brews some coffee and burns some toast for them and they settle back down. Well, sort of.

“I am fucking fine, Steve.”

“I just wanna check, ok? Makes sure nothing looks broken.”

“You just wanna see me without a shirt.”

“That too, Casanova, but right now I’d just like to make sure you’re not dying on me.”

For once, Bucky is the one to blush, and though it takes a few minutes of careful maneuvering, he gets his shirt off and lies flat on the couch. Steve takes a sip of coffee and warms his fingers on the mug before bending over him. 

He maps the planes of Bucky’s torso with his fingers, and the kid watches him with wide eyes and bated breath. Steve’s concerned, asking soft questions until he’s satisfied. _Does it hurt when you breathe? Where? Scale of one to ten, how bad?”_. Ribs aren’t broken, and there doesn’t _seem_ to be any internal bleeding, though he reiterates his desire for Bucky to see a real doctor. Bucky declines, but asks, “How do you know so much about this stuff?”

Steve’s hand is still on Buck’s bare chest but he flinches away as if burned when he says, “War teaches you a lot of things.” Or maybe he’s afraid of being the one doing the burning. Afraid of scaring Bucky off. 

Instead though, Buck reaches up, takes Steve’s hand, and presses it back to his sternum before saying, “How long?”

“Served four. Been back eight.” His skin feels too tight but he stays, anchored by Bucky’s hand pressed over his. He looks thoughtful, eyes skating over Steve’s features with something dangerously close to affection then his brows draw together in a harsh frown. 

“You ever get that thing where you hear a loud noise, a car backfiring or some dumb kid lighting a firecracker and for a second you’re _sure_ , like so fucking sure, that someone’s shooting and you gotta find cover, who’re you with, can you keep them safe…” The volume and intensity of his voice pick up as he speaks but he eventually trails off, breath coming a little too fast. 

Steve disentangles his hand to run it through Bucky’s hair. “Yeah. Why do you?” 

From the couch, he shakes his head, lips pressed shut. Steve relents and shifts to sit more comfortably while still stroking Bucky’s hair. In the most blatant change of subject Steve’s ever heard, Bucky says, “Who is she? The woman you drew.”

“My ma,” Steve says softly. “Sarah Rogers.”

“She’s real pretty.”

“She was, yeah.”

“When’d she pass?”

Steve sighs through pursed lips trying to exhale the splinter of grief lodged under his ribcage. “Damn. Almost fifteen years now.”

“You miss her.” Not a question.

“Yeah.”

Bucky doesn’t offer any return information, but the loneliness in his expression assures Steve that he’s not alone. “You ever show your shit? In a gallery or somethin’?”

“Nah,” Steve shakes his head. “I’m no pro.”

“Uh...yeah. You are.”

“Buck -” he snaps but Bucky cuts him off. “You’re so full of shit, you know that Rogers?” Steve’s got nothing for him but a shrug. They sit in silence watching the soft afternoon light cast new tints on Bucky’s bruises until he says, “If you did, I’d be first in line.”

\--

Steve makes them grilled cheese for dinner.

Bucky smiles three times during the meal.

Steve collects them, hoards them, for when he’s alone again.

\--

They both happen to be awake at 2 am. 

Bucky says into the stillness interrupted only by the scratch of Steve’s pencil, “My ma’s been gone for ten years. I don’t remember what she sounds like. Does that make me a bad son?”

There’s no way for Steve to answer, choked by tamped down sobs, but he shakes his head violently. He doesn’t remember either.

\--

They have to stop watching Forty Year Old Virgin because Bucky’s doing actual damage to his healing body from laughing too hard.

\--

Steve showers and Bucky lends him a pair of boxers and a sweatshirt. They smell like him, and Steve tries not to feel like he’s in high school again, burying his nose into his boyfriend’s sweater.

\--

Day three, Steve draws Bucky a picture. It’s of the Brooklyn Bridge and some surrounding skyline in rough, adamant pencil strokes. It’s somehow minimalist and chaotic at the same time, and Steve loves the way it turned out. 

As he’s sitting there on the floor watching Bucky’s face light up, he thinks about how he feels whole for the first time in decades. Today he’s something other than a tool. It’s acceptable for him to just sit on the floor with his gorgeous friend and drink coffee and laugh, and he doesn’t have to be useful because he’s already enough. Maybe that feeling is why the sketch turned out the way it did.

“This is fuckin’ great, Steve, thanks.” Bucky’s tonguing the healing split in his lip and his eyes are brighter than Steve’s ever seen them. 

“You’re welcome. Whoa, what’re you doing?”

Bucky’s struggling to sit up and subsequently stand, and he slaps Steve’s hand out of the way when he reaches out to help. “Wanna show you something.” He hardens his voice as Steve starts to move, more serious than the situation merits, Steve thinks. “And you _stay here._

“Ok, ok, jeez,” Steve mutters and watches him totter to the hall, hand wrapped tightly to his ribs. He’s excited to see whatever Bucky wants to show him, but also nervous as fuck because Buck still isn’t real steady on his feet yet. There’s some rustling and shuffling from what sounds like the bedroom for a few minutes, and Steve has only just started pacing when there’s a thunk followed by a pained “motherfucker!” and then a crash. 

“Buck?”

The silence is what really freaks him out and he takes off like a shot. He’s barely stumbled through the door of that spare bedroom when Bucky screams, “No Steve! Get out!” but it’s too late, it’s all fucked to hell.

The room is devoid of furniture, but against every wall leans carefully wrapped artwork. Stolen artwork. There’s the Koruda, and the most recent painting to go missing from Steve’s gallery, but he also recognizes a statue and a few other works from the document Clint sent him all those weeks ago. There are post-its on the wall above each stack, and plenty of empty spaces where the square indentations of picture frames are still sunken into the carpet.

Bucky is on the floor right outside a closet, shaking. It looks like he’d tripped over a roll of plastic wrap and Steve is pretty sure he hit the edge of the desk on his way down, which would explain the small wincing breaths, but not the trembling. 

“Buck,” Steve says slowly, scanning the room. “What the hell is this?”

Bucky shakes his head violently, face pale. “Steve -”

“ _You_ took this shit? What the fuck!” Anger to shield himself from deepest betrayal and mourning for something he never had.

“Steve wait, you gotta understand -” 

“Understand?” Watching Bucky struggle off the floor is conflicting because he wants he help so fucking bad but he’s beyond furious. “What is there to understand? You lying fucking bastard.”

He’s not looking at Bucky when he says it, couldn’t have gotten the words out otherwise, they’d break his heart, but the little noise Buck makes does it anyway, hurt and small. 

When Steve turns back to look at him he’s scowling, silent, icy rage painting the planes of his face. Steve’s never seen that expression on Bucky before. It’s terrifying and wild and he’s suddenly unsurprised by Bucky’s confession that he’s got blood on his hands. 

“Get the fuck out.”

\--

Steve is an idiot. He doesn’t call the cops.

Not right away. He thunders out of Bucky’s place and sprints all the way home. He cleans his whole damn apartment then preps all the food in the fridge, rides the mania right up until he’s done cooking and the last dish is dry and shelved, and then Steve looks down and realizes he’s still wearing Bucky’s clothes. 

He punches the wall so hard the drywall crunches in, then slides to the floor, face in hands. 

\--

What is that damn sound? From far away he hears his ringtone and struggles up to one elbow, wiping spit from the corner of his mouth. Passed out on the kitchen floor. Nice, Rogers.

“‘Lo?” 

“Steve!”

“Clint. What time is it?”

“Jesus, man, it’s like twelve thirty. The fuck did you do last night?”

“You don’t wanna know.” That, at least, is true. “Why are you calling me at the asscrack of noon?”

“Your paintings? They’ve been returned, all but one, but we’ve got the provenance and a proof of sale so hopefully we’ll be able to track it down for ya.”

“What?”

“They’re all back man,” Clint repeats, smile evident in his voice. 

“But-” Steve struggles for control of his voice. _Words, Rogers. You gotta make words._ “Who was it?”

“That stole them? No idea. The shit just showed up at the precinct, wrapped, packed, and routed through USPS, but there’s no record of pick up. Searched the security cameras at their facility and ours, questioned the courier, dusted for prints, nothing came up. I dunno man. Maybe the guy’s got a guilty conscience.”

“...Right.”

“Anyway, they’ll be delivered to the gallery this afternoon, and I’ll let you know if anything else comes up.”

“Thanks, Clint.”

“Man, you sure you’re ok? You sound like shit.”

Steve doesn’t want to lie, but he certainly can’t tell the truth, so he gives Clint the information that will get both of them what they want.

“You got any jobs?”


	4. Chapter 4

It’s helpful that the criminal underworld seems to be getting stronger as Steve’s life is falling apart. There’s no way he can pull off kind, calm, and sane without burning some of the fire in his blood.

He does a series of jobs with Clint to head off some firearms deliveries. The shipments are all from different warehouses, and the intel is always last minute, collected by Clint with a combination of informants and police resources. He seems pretty convinced that Obe Stane is behind all of it, but Steve just can’t see how someone so visible could possibly be orchestrating a criminal underground. Besides, Stane hadn’t completely turned him down when they spoke about the new VA center. He’s weird, sure, but an evil mastermind? Doubtful.

Regardless, Steve’s grateful for the distraction. Clint took one look at him the first night, raised his eyebrows, and very pointedly did not ask him if he was ok. From there on out, it was business, and Steve was so grateful to be given a task and left the fuck alone. 

They camp out in the metal latticework along the ceiling of the warehouse and wait until the truck pulls in. Steve generally prefers hand to hand, but maintains his marksmanship, and it’s like shooting fish in a barrel at first. Clint takes out the driver, and Steve gets the two guys that rush to his aid, one in the knee, one in the shoulder before shimmying down a ladder on the back wall and dropping to the ground. 

He disarms two more guards and knocks them out before opening the back of the truck. Another guy gets in, and this one’s a little stronger than the others, but Steve doesn’t mind. The burn in his muscles feels good. The dislocated shoulder, not so much, but once the guy is unconscious Steve winds his own arm through a chain on the sliding cargo door, pulls tight and jerks forward, popping the shoulder back into place. 

There are crates on crates of firearms but no explosives so Steve slams it shut, ignoring the sound of gunfire as it quiets, then stops all together.

“Good to go,” he calls as he hops out of the back and swings into the driver’s seat. He hears the gentle thud and three taps informing him that Clint is secure on top of the truck. They drive off into the night. 

The mask is uncomfortable, but he and Clint are very aware their identities must stay hidden. These midnight adventures are not legal in the slightest. On the very simplest of jobs they’re still trespassing, and usually guilty of minor destruction of property, and assault. On the more difficult nights, it’s murder. It’s not the first time it’s happened, nor will it be the last, but Steve would rather not serve any time for it.

They back the truck into the delivery garage of a precinct near the warehouse and leave it with a note: _From a concerned citizen._ It takes less than an hour all said and done. The air is cool through the henley Steve wears as they lose the masks and black sweaters, but they look nothing like the guys who pulled into the precinct. There is no discussion. They walk another block together before Clint smacks Steve on the shoulder as a farewell and takes off toward the subway that will take him home. 

Steve’s apartment is five miles away. It’s late and cold out, but he know’s he’ll get no sleep tonight. He decides to walk.

\--

“Please Steve. Please. You’ll be a big draw. All you have to do is wear a tux and smile and drink my whiskey. Ok?”

“Tony -”

“I’ll donate ten thou to that damn VA project you’re always going on about. How’s that?”

“Oh my god, who has ten thousand dollars to use as leverage for a fucking party?”

“I do. Please?”

It’s a shitty move honestly, because he knows Steve can’t say no to an offer like that. Sighing, he agrees while digging through his closet for his oxfords. Fuckin’ Tony.

“Great.Thanks so much, Steve. See you at eight.”

“Yeah, yeah. Bye, you fucking asshole.”

“Takes one to know one!” Tony shouts, but he’s grinning, Steve can hear it through the phone. 

He’s got time to shower and eat, but he hasn’t been hungry in a while so he’s in the back of a cab on his way to Tony’s by eight on the dot. He’s not usually one for fashionable lateness but he’s feeling a little spiteful about being manipulated.

It’s just a holiday party, but the guests tend to be the type you want to get it good with, so Steve understands. Mostly. He doesn’t get why it’s such a big deal that _he_ be there, he’s just a gallery owner, not a lawyer or celebrity, but he supposes another pretty face in the crowd can’t hurt. 

It’s packed already by the time he walks in at quarter to nine. Free booze is a big deal in this town, rich or not. Most of the women are wearing some sort of holiday garb, a red dress or crystal snowflakes dangling from their ears, and they look beautiful, but he can’t really enjoy it, similar to the way food tastes like cardboard these days. 

But it’s fine. He finds Tony and Pepper and they chat with him for longer than they really have time for as hosts, but Steve’s grateful to be able to have at least one genuine conversation that evening. 

He has too much whiskey too soon and then spends almost an hour by the windows drinking water and staring out over the city. He thinks of how beautiful it is. How Bucky’s lense could probably make it even more exquisite. 

Fuck. He’d avoided that topic pretty well in the week since the incident. He’d tried to get ahold of Bucky the day after the paintings were returned, called him dozens of times and then gave up and went to his apartment. It was empty, no furniture, no dishes, nothing. On his way out Steve realized the doorframe had recently been replaced. Like maybe someone had kicked it through.

“Your boy’s lookin’ a little rough,” came Peggy’s voice over his shoulder.

“He’s not my boy,” Steve says softly, not needing to ask who she’s talking about, but then it occurs to him that if she knows Bucky’s looking rough then he must be here.

Sure enough… “Well, he certainly isn’t with that guy,” Peggy murmurs scornfully. 

They both turn to watch where Bucky is standing across the room with the same man he’d been with the first night they met. The guy is handsome in a weird way but Steve hates him, though he isn’t sure if it’s because of the nasty vibe or his arm around Bucky’s waist. 

Steve is blindsided by gratitude that he’d stopped drinking when he had, or he’d have started a fistfight in the middle of Tony’s holiday party. He can’t see Bucky well from this angle, but his posture is tense, coiled tight. Ready to bolt. When he turns to laugh at something, Steve sees that the apples of his cheeks are scarlet, and the humor doesn’t come close to reaching his eyes. He looks almost possessed.. 

Steve makes a little hurt noise at it, and Peggy sighs. “Jesus. You should go talk to him.”

“I can’t. We - uh - we had a fight.”

She snorts and manages to look dazzling and terrifying at the same time as she says, “Steve. Don’t be a damn coward. Go help the man out.”

Bucky’s date looks like a predator, all sharp eyes and masking smiles and Steve wants to kill him, but instead he breathes deeply and begins to pick his way across the room. He realizes he knows the woman they’re talking to. She’s an administrator at the VA. Name, name, what’s her name…

“Steve! Hey!”

“Anna, hi! How are you?”

Thank god for a good memory. She leans in and kisses his cheek, then turns to introduce him.

“Great, thank you. This is Brock Rumlow, he works in Obe Stane’s office, and this is his date, James Barnes.”

Date. Well isn’t that nice.

He extends his hand to Bucky first. “Good to meet you, James,” he murmurs, and the worst part is how the given name feels in his mouth, a reminder of all the distance between them after a chance at closeness. Bucky just nods, eyes wide and jaw clenched tight and Steve gives him a tired smile before moving on. “Mr. Rumlow, it’s a pleasure. It’s seems there’s no escaping your boss. He’s my landlord and a business partner...Is he a good guy to work for?”

Something dark flickers across Rumlow’s face before he says, “Call me Brock, and yeah, he’s great. Quite the visionary.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

“How ‘bout you? You own an art gallery, right?”

“I do, yeah.”

“What kind of art?”

Steve shrugs, trying not stare at Bucky. He’s wearing a black button up and grey slacks and he looks too thin. The bruises are covered with makeup, but Steve knows where to look and they make him want to kill someone. It makes him gag and conceals it with a cough. “Uh, whatever tickles my fancy at the moment. Just depends.”

Brock shifts. Bucky flinches. 

Steve’s trying not to kill anyone. “I’ve got a friend at the VA, we’re working on building a new center. You’re military right? Any interest in helping out?”

Rumlow’s smile narrows. “You know, my boss mentioned that project a bit ago. Said he didn’t think it’d pan out. That’s weird, huh?”

“Very,” Steve grits out. Why would Stane just be stringing him along?

Anna smiles and says, “Well, I think it’s a great idea.” She notices someone across the room and perks up. “Hey Brock, could I steal you away for a bit? You remember Richard? From the district attorney’s office? He was hoping to speak with you. 

“Sure,” Brock smiles, but when he looks at Steve the smile hardens a little around the eyes. “Keep an eye on my date, would ya, Steve?” And before anyone has the chance to protest the action or the wording, he and Anna have sailed off into a sea of people.

It’s good they’re tucked out of the way because it probably would look strange to passers by to see two grown men staring at each other and shuffling their feet. 

“Buck-” Steve says at the same time Bucky whispers, “I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry? You returned everything.”

“Except the Werger, I’m sorry, I got the provenance but I couldn’t - and I didn’t want to but I had -” He claps a hand over his mouth. “Shit, forget I said any of this ok? Just forget it.”

“Bucky, what is going on?” Steve whispers, stepping into shared space and laying a hand on Bucky’s arm. 

He leans into it. “I can’t tell you, Stevie, please…”

“Let me help you.” 

“You can’t,” he murmurs, so, so sad. “You can’t.”

“I want to try, Buck.”

“Why?” He sounds almost angry.

“You’re important to me.”

“Why?” He’s practically yelling, and he must be getting warm because he’s cuffing his sleeves. 

“I don’t know! I don’t know, ok? I’ve been alone for so long, and then suddenly, it feels like maybe I’m not.” He pauses and tilts his head. “Granted, the guy who made me feel like a damn human being again is also involved in some sort of art smuggling ring so it’s actually right in line with the rest of the shitshow that is my life.” 

Bucky’s just staring at him, shaking his head and Steve slumps. The very last thing he deserves is the kind of happiness Bucky brings him, but he’s addicted now. He knows this is it for him, that no one will compare, and it’s fucked up and impossible and stupid and - where did those bruises come from?

They line Bucky’s forearms, and they’re new but familiar, fat fingers with thicker bands at the base of the second and third fingers. Suddenly, Steve can see it, Obe Stane’s large hands with those obnoxious rings, gleaming in low light.

Steve’s heard the phrase ‘blood runs cold’ before, but he’s never felt it quite like this. A wave of goosebumps rolls over his skin, and then behind them, absolute, consuming rage. Gently he picks up Bucky’s wrist and runs a soft thumb over the marks. 

“Oh Buck,” he whispers. “That’s why...what does Stane have on you? Whatever it is, we’ll fight it…”

“No!” he shouts, ripping his arm away. He looks horrified. A few party goers take notice of them but Steve just smiles and turns in towards Bucky, shielding them from view. “You can’t, Steve. He’ll kill you and everyone you’ve ever loved.” There isn’t really a way for Steve to sneak in the comment _”You’re the only one left._ , and it wouldn’t matter anyway, because Brock beckons from across the room. 

Bucky plasters on this awful smile, sauve and sparkling and dead underneath. “I gotta go, Steve.” He turns to back and lets the mask fall for a moment, exhausted and scared. “Don’t underestimate this guy, Steve. You’re great, really wonderful, you are, but he’s a brilliant psychopath with infinite resources. Don’t do anything stupid.” Right before walking away, he steps forward, kisses Steve’s cheek feather-light and stays close, mouth at Steve’s ear. “Wish it had been different, Stevie. In another life -” He huffs and pulls back so they're face to face. “Well. You know. Those kind of dreams ain’t meant for guys like us.”


	5. Chapter 5

“I gotta ask a favor.”

“Rogers-”

“I’ll come to any of your parties for the next six months no questions asked.”

“What can I do for you, sir?” Tony intones with faux politeness.

Steve begins his research. Bucky was right. They’ve seen too much, done too much to ever be forgiven, but Steven Grant Rogers has never walked away from a fight. Not as an asthmatic fifteen year old weighing a hundred pounds soaking wet, and certainly not now, strong and in love and paying his dues. 

He’s expanding his arsenal.

It doesn’t stop his heart from breaking.

\--

“Any word on the center?” Steve pants. 

“Nah,” Sam gasps. “You talk to Stane?”

“Yeah, he said he’d look into it. Seemed pretty into it. Dunno what’s taking so long.” This isn't the time to discuss any of it.

“Just anxious.”

“Understandable.”

“Thanks for your help.”

“Anytime.”

“Bring Bucky by whenever. He was -”

“Yeah, ok,” Steve interrupts, voice much colder than he’d intended.

“The fuck’s with you?” 

Clint is with them on this run even though it’s cold as balls outside, and Steve sees him glance sideways before focusing ahead again.

“Nothing, why?”

“You’re a fucking asshole.” Sam sounds genuinely pissed and Steve is surprised enough that he continues the conversation. 

“What?”

“Something’s obviously fucked and you’re acting like nothing’s wrong. Like I won’t fuckin’ notice.”

He picks up his pace a little but they’re on their last mile so Steve and Clint match it without comment. 

“Sorry,” Steve finally mutters. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Ok,” Sam says, sounding immediately appeased and Steve is so fucking confused. 

“Ok?”

“Ok. Thanks for telling me.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You acknowledged the issue, you addressed your stance on it, you included me as your friend in the conversation.”

“Conversation?” Steve questions faintly as Clint rolls his eyes. After that no one has breath to continue talking.

The walk their cool down in silence until Steve says, “It’s uh - Bucky.” 

Sam nods, utterly unsurprised, and Clint doesn’t even acknowledge the comment. “There’s been some...shit happening lately. I’m gonna need some help.”

“Care to elaborate?” Clint grunts and Sam snorts. 

Steve hasn’t said anything to either of them. At first it was just a privacy thing, but now it’s strategic. Sam knows about he and Clint’s side job, even joins them on the odd occasion that all three of them are needed. They’ve left behind a life where they could be anything but soldiers. Might as well make use of it. 

“I can’t. Yet. But…” He sighs and tucks his hands in the pockets of his sweats. What else is there to say.

“When you’re ready,” says Sam.

“I’m in,” Clint murmurs, low and emphatic. 

Steve scrubs at his nose and quickly across his eyes. Jim was right. He’s got some damn good people in his corner.

“Thanks guys.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Clint says, then points down the street the path towards the park. “Race ya to the food truck.”

Sam starts running on the word “food”, Clint follows after. Steve give them a good ten seconds head start, and beats them both.

\--

Visibility in the shipyard sucks, and no one’s happy about it, but Clint had texted the second he got wind of the transaction, mostly because it sounded like his bosses weren’t going to do shit about it. Stane’s reach is more encompassing than either of them had thought, and make no mistake, it’s Stane. Steve is sure of it now.

According to Clint, the merchandise is already on site, has been for almost six hours, but it’s being transported out soon. A fuck ton of drugs instead of guns this time, which is kind of a relief, but more than Steve’s ever seen in his life, and he went to art school so that’s pretty impressive. The goal is to get into the shipping containers, burn those bitches down, and capture whoever they can.

A quick scan of the yard reveals one guard for each of the twelve containers, plus two heavily armed watchmen, and one stand alone soldier that looks to be the leader. With the boxes in the way there’s no possibility of long range shots, so Clint’s best asset is forfeited already. Still, not bad odds. They’ll just have to be efficient. 

They silently divide up their targets, reassess exit strategies and contingency plans, and then they’re jumping like shadows across storage containers toward their goal. Clint drops down between the boxes in front of Steve and there’s the gentle thud of one body, then two, three before he himself falls lightly to a crouch in the dirt and begins his task. Four go down easy, but then it gets a little more complicated.

They had managed to catch the first few by surprise, but now it’s like hide and seek, each party waiting for someone to move. One of the guys actually lands a shot in Steve’s shoulder, but it doesn’t feel too bad. It’s frustrating though, because it takes twice as long to get half as many guys down, and then a big one sees him and Steve can’t get out of the way in time.

The guard hits him so hard he sails between two containers into the loading area. There’s more room and less cover here, and Steve immediately flips to his feet. Clint is working on the guy that looks like the leader, but Steve’s not sure it’ll end well. The soldier is incredible: tight, powerful movements, and he’s handling a blade like it’s an extension of his arm. He’s impeccably trained.

The guard that tossed him comes charging out from the field of cargo and Steve crouches, braces, and lets the guy hit him at full speed. As he straightens, he flings the armored man off and watches him soar until the metal wall of a container stops his trajectory. 

“A little help here?” Clint calls and Steve sprints and launches himself through the air, both feet landing at the center of the leader’s chest and throwing him to the ground. They grapple in the dirt for a moment and he hears Clint say, “They’re loading. Fuck!”

“Go!” Steve shouts. “I’ll be fine!” 

One thing he loves about Clint is there’s never any bullshit _Are you sure?_ ’s. They say what they mean and believe each other, at least in battlefield conditions, so Clint takes off like a shot, swinging himself up to leap across the lot toward the bay. 

And then the leader hits him, and he hurts for the first time in a long time.

It’s an all out brawl, so evenly matched that there’s no point when Steve feels certain that he will come out victorious. They bounce back and forth across the clearing, and exhausting and nerve wracking as it is, Steve can’t help but be impressed by the guy. It’s too bad they’re trying to kill each other. He’d be a good sparring partner.

Time blurs around them, blows landing, grappling, and there’s a lot of dodging the knife the guy is wielding. For a moment Steve thinks he might win when out of nowhere, three guards emerge, each grabbing his arm to pin behind him, and one kicks his knees out before backhanding Steve so hard he sees fireworks. 

He spits out the blood. Across the clearing, his adversary is drawing a handgun. Even a terrible shot would struggle to miss at this range and Steve is surprised to feel regret. He’s starting to realize there’s a lot of shit in his life he truly enjoys, people he genuinely cares about, and he’ll...miss them. Sam. Clint. Jim. Nat. Bucky. 

One of the men spits, “Say your goodbyes,” Steve laughs at him. “Kinda pushy aren’t ya? For a foot soldier? I mean, it’s not like you rank as high as this guy,” and he gestures with his head to the guy he keeps assuming is their captain. “But nice try, really, I mean -”

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth,” the guy says, cracking his hand across Steve’s face again, then rips off the mask and steps to the side. “Not so cocky now, huh?” he growls, and Steve shrugs. It had to end somewhere. 

He stares up at the man across from him. The guy is masked, but Steve can see him shift his weight, and there’s definite hesitation. “What are you waiting for? Kill this fucker!” This time the guy raises his weapon, but Steve can see his hand shaking. What the fuck? There’s no way he’s this guy’s first kill. 

He won’t give any of them the satisfaction of hiding his face and as the guy steadies his grip, Steve looks up at him, eyes grim. 

Three shots ring out.


	6. Chapter 6

Three shots ring out and Steve flinches despite himself, waiting for the pain, but he realizes there’s none the same moment he realizes no one is holding him anymore and instead there are three bodies behind him. 

He struggles to his feet feeling particularly woozy. Maybe the gunshot wound was worse than he thought. His opponent pulls off his mask.

“Bucky?”

And then he blacks out.

\--

“You’re a goddamn motherfucking crazyass idiot and I hate you,” Bucky growls.

“You do not.” Steve’s torn between laughing and crying. Bucky’s patching up his shoulder angrily and it hurts only slightly less than the fact that Buck hasn’t looked him in the eyes since not shooting him.

“You’re still a dumbass.”

“Debatable.”

“Fact.”

Steve’s phone ringing gets his attention and interrupts their weird passive-aggressive argument. “Clint, you good?”

“Yeah man, you?”

“Fine. Mission accomplished.”

“Definitely. There were only two left. I took ‘em out and torched it all.”

“Great. Sorry for leaving you high and dry.”

“Yeah, what happened?”

“Uh...I got shot.”

“Fuck, you ok?”

“Yeah, yeah, fine.”

“I didn’t see anyone left, you take care of ‘em?”

Steve glances up at Bucky. He’s ripping medical tape into strips with his teeth and frowning at the window, hair falling into his face.

“Yeah. We’re clear.”

“Alright man. ‘Night.”

“G’night, Clint. Thanks again.”

Fuck he’s so damn tired. He can hear the exhaustion in Clint’s voice too. Maybe they’re too old to be keeping this kind of schedule.

“You lie about me often?” Bucky murmurs, taping the gauze to Steve’s shoulder with a little too much force.

Steve is categorically too done to mince words, though really, he should have been more careful. About this at least.

“What’m I supposed to say? Hey friends, I’m in love with a career criminal who stole a bunch of my shit? How’s that gonna fly?”

He’s staring at the floor and his whole body feels like a bruise, so it takes longer than perhaps it should for the lengthening silence to register. 

“Buck?”

“You love me?”

Again with the blood running cold. Steve jerks to his feet. Maybe he’s not as fucked up as he thought. He seems to be standing just fine. Whoops, nope, everything’s spinning. Still…

Bucky’s still dressed head to toe in black, though at some point he’d stripped off the kevlar so he’s down to shirtsleeves and he’s suddenly in Steve’s line of vision, catching him by the hips. 

“Forget it,” Steve whispers.

“Don’t want to.” 

“What?”

“Say it again.” He looks wild, terrified and hopeful and one hand is creeping around Steve’s waist to his back.

“Buck -” It feels impossibly vulnerable and dangerous. There’s more adrenaline in his body right now than when he was taking on a whole damn shipyard, but he has to say it, can’t spend the rest of his life missing the shadow of hands that barely touched him, the echo of a voice that would never say what he needed to hear. “I love you.”

Bucky makes a broken sound in his throat. “I’m gonna get you killed.”

Steve shrugs. “I’m with you ‘til the end of the line, Buck.”

It’s not much, but he’s already feeling raw and hollowed out. Miraculously, Bucky hears what he’s actually saying.

_You’re it, you’re everything. There’s no one after you. You can keep sending me away but I’ll keep coming back. I’m yours._

It’s all he has and just enough.

Bucky leans forward and kisses him. Steve passes back out. Fuckin’ blood loss.

\--

He wakes again in a bed in nothing but his boxers. Well that’s fun.

His body aches, but much less severely than before. He’s always been a quick healer, and even his shoulder doesn’t hurt quite so bad. He doesn’t really feel like moving though, and spends long minutes staring at the ceiling and trying to remember what the fuck happened the last time he was conscious.

There’s a small noise in the room and he tilts his head to see Bucky curled up next to him. They’re not touching, not even close, but Bucky’s facing him, hand under his cheek, looking incredibly young and Steve suddenly wonders how old he is. He looks so youthful, but fights like someone with a lifetime of training. 

It’s probably creepy for Steve to be watching him sleep, but it’s hard not to when Bucky’s hair is spilling over his forehead and his face is so sweet and relaxed. Besides, who actually sleeps curled up like that? It looks ridiculous for someone so tall, but Bucky has always had a way of inspiring protective feelings in Steve, so it’s unsurprising that he rolls over and puts a hand on Buck’s hip, just resting. A reminder. I’m here. I’m yours.

“Most shot people I’ve encountered don’t smile near as much as you,” he says, rough and quiet and Steve startles a little. 

“Sorry. Didn’t realize you were awake.”

Buck rolls up and frowns down at Steve. “You feelin’ alright?” He catches a yawn in the crook of his elbow but doesn’t stop glaring until Steve says, “Yeah, yeah, fan-fuckin-tastic.” 

Worry still dances behind Bucky’s eyes and Steve squeezes his hip. “How long was I out?”

“Just the day. About twenty six hours.” 

Steve nods. “Not bad.”

“Couldn’t get you to wake up,” Bucky mumbles, and suddenly the worry is understandable.

“Buck. Hey. Look at me. I’m fine. Really. Actually, I’m starving and I have to pee so badly I might be dying.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling.“Well, I can help you with one of those things…”

Groaning, Steve swings his legs over the edge of the bed and stands. “Thanks Buck, but I think it’s a little early in the relationship for you to be helping me piss.”

That finally gets the laugh Steve was looking for, and he grins in triumph, but halfway to the bathroom he turns back. “I mean...Not that we have to be in a relationship...I didn’t...wasn’t trying to -”

“Christ Steve, go pee. We’ll talk about it over breakfast.” He must see that Steve’s still worried because he says, “I’m cookin’ for you, Rogers. Clearly, I want you around.”

“Oh.” He is without a doubt turning bright red.

“GO.”

“Ok, ok, damn.”

It’s clear he’s been at this new location only briefly: the walls are bare, the furniture is minimal and functional, and it makes Steve a little sad that Bucky doesn’t really have a _home_. Then again, his own apartment is well furnished and decorated to taste and he hardly spends any time there.

There’s a rag left on the counter in the bathroom and Steve wets it with warm water and wipes himself down as best he can. He’s not ready to shower yet, the shoulder is still too tender, but he’s still a little grimy. Though, not as much as he was. Did Bucky clean him up? 

The thought of Bucky’s hands brushing across the planes of his body sends a shiver down his spine, and his mind wanders to the previous night when Bucky was bandaging his shoulder. He’d dug the slug out with breathtaking efficiency. Disinfecting and packing the wound hurt badly, and Bucky’d been pissed (scared), but in between forceful applications of antiseptic and tape there’d been moments where his fingertips ghosted _reverently_ across his skin, and Steve finds himself hunched over the counter with the beginnings of a hard on. 

It’s a little terrifying, because it’s not just the visceral memory of Bucky’s hands on him catalyzing this physical reaction, it’s the fact that it’s Bucky, his Bucky, touching him, and they’ve been through so much and now there’s a chance, a prayer, that maybe, just maybe, they’ll get to keep this.

He should probably slow his roll though. It’s not like Bucky had said anything about wanting a relationship. There had been no reciprocation of Steve’s sentiment, he remembers that much. He also remembers that kiss though...

Steve manages to shake his mind free. Back in the bedroom there is a pair of sweatpants folded neatly at the edge of the bed and he pulls them on. The smell of bacon leads him from the bedroom down a short hall into the main room, kitchen and living room all in one.

Bucky’s at the stove and Steve has to catch himself on the doorframe.

He’s got flannel pants hanging low at his hips and nothing else. His back is absolutely covered in scars, but beneath them is tan skin and lines of sinew and bone and Steve just _knows_ if he ran his lips over it it’d feel like velvet. Buck’s hair is a goddamn mess and Steve wants to run his fingers through it so badly they twitch without his permission. 

However long he stands there staring is probably too long, but when Bucky turns and sees Steve leaning there he just smiles and says, “Whatcha lookin’ at, punk?”

Momentarily forgetting his resolution to let Bucky set the tone of whatever they are now Steve opens his mouth to say some sappy shit, but he catches himself and shrugs instead. “This fuckin’ jerk I know.”

Buck laughs. “Is that so?”

“It is.”

He flips the bacon in the pan and it makes a delectable sizzling sound. “If he’s such a jerk, why do you stick around?” There’s humor in his voice, but nervousness buried beneath it, so far that Steve takes a moment to be proud that he heard it at all.

As he crosses the room to join Bucky at the stove he says, “Well...he’s one of the most incredible men I’ve ever met, so there’s that.”

“Yeah?” he whispers, then clears his throat nervously.

“Absolutely brilliant,” Steve nods. “Strong, intuitive, brave. Incredible artist. Kind.”

Buck scoffs at the last word. “Ok, now you’re just makin’ shit up.”

“I am not,” Steve says, offended.

“I stole your crap, Steve.” His voice is hard, ready to shut down, and Steve is not about to let that happen.

“You brought it back. You really are kind, Buck. Good with people. The way you were with Marta, and Elijah…”

“Only reason I knew Elijah is because Stane uses those homeless guys as carriers sometimes, and when they don’t follow through, I’m dispatched to put them in place. I’ve killed a guy in front of him.”

It’s terrible, turns Steve’s stomach, but it doesn’t change his mind. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” Bucky’s voice rises so much at the end it’s almost a shriek but Steve doesn’t turn away.

“I know what it’s like to dispense someone else’s justice. I know you’d rather kill yourself than do it again. Is that why you’ve been getting the shit kicked out of you lately? Been refusing jobs?” Bucky’s forking bacon out of the pan with sharp little movements but he makes a choked noise and nods, just once. “See?” Steve continues, moving around him to pour a cup of coffee. “You’ve got a good heart.”

“You’re an idiot,” Bucky mumbles, and the fear is so plain in his tone that Steve doesn’t even pause before saying, “Then I’m an idiot who loves you.”

There’s a clatter of cutlery on counter and Steve’s lucky he set the mug down because Bucky yanks him around by his good arm and kisses him.

Immediately, Steve wraps his arms around Bucky’s waist, and the feeling of their chests pressed together calms him down and sets him on fire. Buck tastes like smoke and coffee, and his lips are soft and insistent on Steve’s, getting the message across. _I love you, oh god, I love you, too._

They slow down a little when Steve runs a hand up Bucky’s back and into his hair, holding him still to kiss him more deeply and it’s perfect, it’s heaven, the best thing he’s ever experienced, until Buck pulls back a little and slides his body to fit against Steve’s in an embrace. And that’s it. The most pure and perfect thing that’s ever happened to him: Bucky Barnes with his face pressed into Steve’s neck, squeezing so hard Steve can only just barely breathe. 

“Buck…” Steve murmurs into the top of Bucky’s head, and his voice quivers a little, they both hear it, but Steve ignores it. Bucky, however, pulls back grinning and says, “Come on old man. Help me with breakfast.”

That morning is a perfect metaphor for their lives.There’s so much shit looming over their heads: Stane is obviously at the forefront, but then there’s Steve’s gunshot wound, Bucky’s sordid past, and fucking _work_ to worry about; Steve has been placing a lot of trust in Aaliyah to keep things afloat, but he really needs to check in on her more frequently. Even so, they make pancakes and bacon and eat on the couch, bathed in soft light from the window. Bucky keeps smiling at Steve with hesitant hope and absolute joy and it looks so good on him. For one brief moment, there is peace, and though they both know it’ll be short lived, there’s also a sense of savoring it, storing it away to remember when things fall apart again.

At one point, Steve opens a drawer of the entertainment center looking for the remote. Bucky is in the bathroom, and the movie they were watching ended, and now the damn DVD menu won’t stop playing.

There’s no remote.

Instead, there are messy piles of photographs, and Steve recognizes one from the first night they met as one of Bucky’s, a train trestle in the snow, iron and rust and exhaustion. He crumples to his knees too fast and sifts through the pile.

There are landscapes, dozens, but towards the bottom there are portraits too. Maybe he got to that project after all. 

The techniques involved in portraiture are vastly different than for architecture or still life, and not many artists can cross over, regardless of medium, but Bucky is astonishingly talented.

The portraits are visually beautiful: well constructed images, interesting focus, differing filters. While it’s impressive, it’s not the thing that has Steve hunched over, pulling page after page from the drawer and laying them out. It’s not what has him running gentle fingers over the paper. It’s not why he’s about to cry.

The faces of the people he captured...each tells such a distinct story. There’s such vibrance in them, even the sad ones. They’re listening, in each of them, a moment away from speech or action, poised in a moment of genuine authenticity. Honest.

He gets to the one Bucky took of him that day at the park, the one where he’s winking, and he huffs a little in his throat. He looks good, but not quite himself. Underneath that, though, is another one, one Steve didn’t even realize Bucky had taken. He’s leaning on his elbows and looking up at the sky. The viewer’s gaze rests lovingly, and Steve has no idea how Buck managed to do that. He looks at peace. He looks exactly how he’d felt. Happy.

“That was the one I wanted to show you. The day you found the stolen paintings.”

“It’s incredible, Buck.” Why does his voice sound so strange?

“Eh. You’re an easy subject.” Steve gives a short laugh and looks up as Bucky continues. “Actually, that’s not true. You’re infuriating to photograph. You’re so good at hiding behind that kind smile, and it’s beautiful, damn is it ever, but it’s not you. When you get worked up, or when you’re laughing so hard you cry, or...or when you look at me...you’re honest. And gorgeous. And I can never get it right.”

“Oh,” is all he can say, and then Bucky helps him clear the photos away.

They pass out on the couch after breakfast and a few hours of talking, and Steve is beyond pleased to wake up in Bucky’s arms. It’s dark out and his stomach is rumbling again, but he doesn’t move right away. He’s warm.

In the end, his stomach wins out and he goes to the kitchen. With leftover bacon from breakfast he makes BLTs and grabs the entire family sized bag of chips from the pantry before heading back.

Bucky’s awake, blinking owlishly up at him, and Steve finds himself unable to breathe for a moment.

“You’re amazing,” Bucky murmurs and accepts his plate without sitting up very much, just scooting to rest his head on the arm of the couch so Steve gets settled with Bucky’s legs in his lap. 

Then Bucky’s phone rings. He silences it and throws it on the couch and Steve sees 34 missed calls.

“Buck, you can’t just ignore it forever.”

Staring at his sandwich Bucky says, “He’s gonna kill me.” When he looks up, his eyes are full of tears that don’t fall, might never. “I never cared and now I care and he’s gonna fuckin’ kill me.”

Steve leans in and kisses his forehead and they breathe there for a moment before he says, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”


	7. Chapter 7

In his wildest dreams, Steve could never have imagined this situation. 

They’re all at Stark Tower, in Tony’s apartment, though they’ve each been given a floor to themselves. Bucky’s pacing silently behind the couch. He hasn’t spoken to Steve all day, and there’s no telling whether he’s angry or anxious or just trying not to think about the fact that he has a hit out on him. Steve is trying not to think about the fact that Bucky isn’t talking to him.

Clint is sprawled next to Steve on the sofa. Sam is eating cereal from his perch on the floor. Nat is curled into a ball on the armchair. Tony is spinning slowly in an office chair. 

They’re all staring at Steve.

“Soooo…”

“You got yourself a boyfriend,” Natasha finishes, and Steve rolls his eyes. 

“Really, that’s where we’re gonna start?”

“Steve. I’ve been harassing you for years, to ask out the barista at the café across from the gallery, Aaliyah, that hot girl Tony knows from Lincoln, a million others and it never occurred to you to mention that you’re gay as a picnic basket?”

Because he’s a little shit Steve says, “I’m a man of mystery.” 

“I’ll say. Care to fill us in?” Tony grumps.

It’s challenging because everyone has different, disjointed pieces of the puzzle, and Steve’s trying not to turn this into a share-a-thon, but there seems to be no other option than to start from the beginning, explaining to Bucky why all these people are here.

“Clint’s a cop, Sam’s a friend from the VA, we served together, which is where we met Nat, she’s CIA. Tony and I met years ago, and I’m not actually sure why we’re still friends.”

“Accurate,” Tony shouts from where he’s rolling around.

“Clint noticed a while ago that Obadiah Stane seemed to be at the center of a lot of crime in the city. I was trying to get his help on Sam’s VA center project and he just strung me along for months, pretending like he was interested in helping while simultaneously delaying the project downtown.” That had been a fun surprise in his research.

“Why?” Sam accepts the folder from Clint: all the intel collected on Stane over the past few years. 

“He doesn’t want them off the streets,” Bucky cuts in. “He uses those homeless vets as carriers, scapegoats, expendable bodies. Sam’s idea is great,” and he nods at Sam, who smiles. “Too good. It’ll virtually eliminate his cheap labor.”

“How do you know that?” Nat asks. Steve’s grateful for her training. There’s no accusation in her voice, only curiosity.

Bucky freezes up all the same. “I used to work for him.”

“When did that change?”

“Uh...two days ago?”

Clint sits up. “Wait. You’re the guy Steve’s been cuckoo for cocoa puffs about this whole time, but you work for the major crime boss in this city? And you knew?” He turns to Steve, and Clint doesn’t have the subtlety of Natasha, but it’s a fair question.

“Look. I vouch for him.”

“No offense, Steve-o but that’s not good enough,” Tony says. 

“Tony. I’m telling you. On my life. He’s one of us.”

Nat sighs. “Look, Steve, you have impeccable judgment, but I’m pretty sure based on the level of security you insisted on, and the fact that we’re at _Tony’s_ of all places, you’re about to ask us to do some shit that might get us killed, or worse, arrested. I’ll always fight for you, you know that. But it sounds like you’re asking us to fight for him too, and if that’s the case, we deserve to know.”

It’s all valid but Steve’s still frustrated. He doesn’t know Bucky’s whole story, doesn’t need to, he just needs his friends to trust in this mission. Stane is evil. That has nothing to do with Bucky. He’s a breath from freaking out when Bucky interrupts. 

“My...uh, my ma died when I was seventeen. I have a sister. My dad was long gone, we didn’t have any money. I spent months wandering the streets trying to get someone to hire me, pay me under the table, no one would bite. Stane found me. Gave me a thousand dollars and said if I went on a date with this friend of his, he’d give me another grand.”

Sam hisses through his teeth and Steve belatedly realizes Tony has stopped spinning and is just staring up at Buck. 

“It wasn’t just a date,” Bucky says softly, looking mortified, and Steve wants to kill someone. “But he kept his word about the money. Becca and I ate food that I actually paid for for the first time in months. Then he asked me to rough someone up, gave me another grand. I made sure rent was taken care of. He was a real chill, nice guy, just trying to help out. Suddenly, we had enough money, but I had this list of shit I wasn’t real proud of. When I tried to end it I found out he had footage of the crimes I’d committed, and by then I’d been...compromised. He’s brilliant. He knew right where to strike, right where to tear me down, said he’d hurt Becca if I left... Tried to get out a few times, and each time he damn near killed me. So I stayed. Did a lot of shit I shouldn’t.”

“You didn’t have a choice,” Steve defends, but Bucky shakes his head. 

“I should’ve left. Should’ve took Becca and ran to the ends of the earth.”

“Where is she now?” 

“Far away. I got her out of town a few years ago.”

“Good man,” Sam affirms, and Steve watches Bucky’s chest puff a little in pride then deflate again. “Not quite,” he says bitterly.

Sam murmurs, “How long?” He’s spreading the information from Stane’s file across the coffee table and looking vaguely horrified at the contents.

“Ten years.”

“What changed?” Nat asks.

Bucky glances down at Steve. “Found something worth dying for I guess.”

“Nah,” Sam interrupts. “But something worth living for? I’ll say.”

Bucky nods at him, smiling only a little, but honestly. “Yeah.”

“I see why you called us then,” Natasha says to Steve as she unfolds from the chair. 

“Uh, because you’re his only friends?” Bucky snarks, still not speaking directly to Steve, but small sounds of humor scatter around the room. Even Nat smiles, but she shakes her head. “No, James. You gotta understand, all of us,” and she gestures to the each of them in a sweeping motion. “We’ve all got red in our ledger, too.”

The room goes still. “What?” Bucky whispers.

“We’ve all killed people in the name of something we didn’t quite believe in, but we had nothing else to live for, or so we thought, until it was too late. Right?” Tony confirms, scanning their faces.

Sam nods as Clint says, “True.”

She crosses the room and stands in front of Bucky. He looks down at her, nervous, and rightly so. Natasha has killed some of the most powerful people in the world. They watch as she rises to her tiptoes and wraps her slender arms around his shoulders. “It’s not your fault, alright James? Say it. Come on.”

His eyes are too bright as he stares at her in shock, and it takes a full damn minute for him to speak, but eventually he obeys, choking out, “Not my fault.”

“Good,” she praises, then kisses his cheek and returns to her chair. “Alright. I’m in.”

“I haven’t even told you the plan yet,” Steve protests, and she shrugs, but Clint sits up to begin sorting the pages on the coffee table.

“Yeah, what the fuck is the plan?” 

\--

Plan A is takeout. Plan A Revised is takeout in pajamas.

Plan A 3.0 is assessing the actual plan with the help of alcohol.

It’s going well so far. 

“Money is always the answer,” Clint is saying, bottle of beer swinging from his fingertips. “Cut off his resources and watch him wither.”

“His reach is too broad for us to cover all of his funding sources,” Nat says. “We could release his information online? Crimes, personal data, etc, let the city take care of it.”

“That’s probably a good idea at some point, but not thorough enough,” Tony says through a mouthful food.

Steve, squeezing Bucky’s knee protectively says,“Well you know I’d like to fuckin’ kill him.”

“Me too,” Buck agrees emphatically.

Natasha nods. “Definitely.”

“Kill the fucker!” Clint shouts and has to be shushed by Sam who adds more quietly, “But I agree, kill the fucker.”

Everyone looks to Tony. “You know I’m in,” he says, and for some reason they cheer. 

“Wait.” Bucky looks nervously around the room. “It’s not like he’s new at this. He’s incredibly well guarded even if we can figure out where he’ll be and when.”

“It won’t be a problem,” Natasha assures.

“You don’t know that!”

Sam, master de-escalator that he is says, “Does he have an office? A base of operations?” He pauses. “A lair?”

Incredulously, Bucky mutters, “Yeah,” over Steve laughing.

“Then that’s where we’ll start.”

“There won't be less than a hundred and fifty building guards plus five personal bodyguards. There’s state of the art weaponry, alarm systems, he could be anywhere inside and the complex is huge...if we can even get in through camera monitored main gates and six inch steel front doors.”

Nat and Steve are grinning at each other and Bucky rolls his eyes.

“What?”

Natasha, in that smooth, calm way of hers says, “Sounds like fun.”

\--

“Thank you,” Bucky says, and Steve peeks around the corner to see Natasha leaning against the counter, shaking her head.

“It’s nothing, James. Stane is the kind of guy we take care of. This is a good fight.”

He shrugs. “Still can’t help but feel like this is my fault.”

“Don’t you dare,” she says, quiet and insistent. “If anything, we’re all so grateful to you.”

“For what?” 

“For what you’ve done for Steve.”

“Listen, I ain’t done shit for Steve other than get him shot.”

“That’s so far from true I’m pissed off that you even said it.”

“Nat, look -”

“No, you _look_ ,” she snarls, then calms herself with a breath. “I wasn’t kidding when I said we all have blood on our hands, but Steve…”

And suddenly Steve is terrified.

“Steve was only a captain, but he was so damn competent he was given jobs regular infantry should never have been responsible for. He’s never said no to a fight, and was so damn set on doing the right thing…” She’s a million miles away, now. “There was a job that needed doing. There was no one else to do it. His men weren’t enough, but they’d have followed him anywhere. Did follow him anywhere. They went. Steve, Clint, and Sam were the only ones to make it out alive.”

“How many?” Bucky asks of the loss, and Natasha sighs, allowing rare sadness to flit across her features. 

“Thirteen, gone. They weren’t the first or the last, and it wasn’t Steve’s fault at all. In fact, they did what they came to do. But it was his call to go in. And he’ll carry those deaths on his shoulders for the rest of his life. Told each of their families personally, as some sort of fucked up penance.”

“Jesus christ.”

“Anyway,” she continues. “You’re good for him. You get him out of that damn gallery, you help him see things differently, you make him laugh -”

“Make him laugh?” Buck interrupts incredulously. “I don’t do fuckall Natasha, he laughs all the time.”

Again with the smile from Nat. Steve wonders if Bucky realizes how rare that is. She’s staring him down too, for long enough that he starts to look uncomfortable, until finally she says, “No, James. That’s the thing. He doesn’t.”

Unblinking and open-mouthed Bucky lets a whole ten seconds pass, and Steve can practically see the cogs in his brain turning.

“Excuse me,” he says abruptly, and walks out of the kitchen and straight into Steve, who immediately starts apologizing.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop but -”

Bucky grabs him by the wrist and starts dragging him down the hall. “Shut up.”

“Buck, please, I’m so-”

“I said shut up. Tony!” he calls as they enter the living room. “Keys please.”

“Your floor or Steve’s?”

“I can’t fucking believe you put us on different floors,” Bucky says dryly and Tony cracks up, snapping a set of keys off the ring at his belt. 

“Kidding, of course I put you on the same floor,” he laughs, tossing the keys through the air, and Bucky catches them one handed and rolls his eyes.

“Good night, boys.” Nat smiles knowingly from the shadows of the hallway and Steve realizes she’d known he was there the whole time.


	8. Chapter 8

The whole time, down the hall, the elevator ride to their floor, unlocking the door, Bucky is silent, and Steve follows his lead, all the way ‘til they’re standing in their own kitchen, staring at their backpacks on the floor.

“Buck -”

“How long have you been planning this?”

Steve wonders if he’ll be able to get away with feigning ignorance. “Planning what?”

“This fucking attack.” Bucky growls at him. “And by the way, you don’t get to keep calling me brilliant and then pull that shit. Pick one.”

“Fine, Jesus,” Steve mutters. “Officially? After that night I saw you with Brock.” For some reason the statement makes Buck smile a little. “What?”

“You jealous, Rogers?”

“Of course!” Steve thunders. “I haven’t stopped wanting you since the day we met. But when you flinched away from him...Fuck, I wanted to kill him.”

“Why?” It’s barely a whisper.

“You’re a fighter, and a damn good one at that. If you’re afraid of him, it’s more than physical. He hurt you in a way I can’t fix and it makes me-” He runs out of voice and clears his throat but can’t quite get it back.

“‘S not true,” Buck mutters. “You’ve been fixin’ that shit since the day we met. You told me my photos were...I think the phrase was ‘Fuckin’ incredible.’” He chuckles a little. “And then you just...let me fuckin’ be. You didn’t need to know any of it, and you still trusted me with everything.”

“You gave up Stane's protection to save me, though, Buck. Dunno if that was worth it.”

Bucky’s arm shoots out so fast Steve barely has time to dodge out of the way. “The fuck?”

“Stop talking like that,” he grinds out.

“Like what?”

This time Bucky’s fist makes contact with his good shoulder. “I said cut that shit out!”

Steve is the master of control, and even with the ache in his arm, he shrugs. He’s not saying anything untrue. Bucky gave up any chance of safety when he shot those guards instead of Steve. Very poor planning for the future.

“Fuck you,” Buck snarls, looking hurt, and Steve realizes he’d said that shit aloud only just before being tackled back into the wall. “Keeping you alive?” he pants, fisting Steve’s collar. “That was me planning for my future.”

“Buck-” Steve chokes out, but speaking hasn’t been too effective tonight, so instead he grabs Bucky by the neck and yanks him in for a kiss. Buck growls and Steve’s knees go a little weak at the sound. 

He rips Bucky’s shirt up and over his head, desperate to finally get his mouth on that velvet skin. It’s better than he could have imagined. He nips his way along Bucky’s collarbone before moving down to roll a nipple between his teeth, earning a gasp. What he really wants though, is Bucky’s cock in his mouth so Steve shoves him in the direction of the bedroom. 

“Bed. Now.” 

Bucky laughs beautifully and goes, pulling Steve along by the hand. 

They eventually get naked, but it looks more like a wrestling match for a while, Bucky teasingly going for Steve’s jeans to get in the way. They end up laughing and sweaty, Buck in his boxers and Steve on top of him, shirt off and jeans unbuttoned. “Not bad for an old man,” Bucky teases. 

“I’m only thirty!” Steve hollers. “Besides, I don’t make fun of you for looking eighteen.”

“I’m twenty six,” Bucky pouts, but Steve can see the grin underneath. “Fucker.”

It’s not the time for the transition, but just roughhousing has Steve already painfully hard in his jeans, and it doesn’t seem like Bucky’s fairing much better, so he goes for it. “Actually...I was hoping…”

All laughter disappears from Bucky’s face, immediately replaced by lust so extreme it leaves Steve breathless. “Steve Rogers. Are you trying to tell me you’re a bottom?”

Steve narrows his eyes, covering his nerves with attitude. “Fuck you. I’m not tryin’ to say anything.”

Bucky appears unfazed. “You want my cock, Steve?” He must feel Steve tremble on top of him, because he flips them and pins Steve’s wrists above his head. “Want me to open you up real slow?” Steve squirms, trying for any kind of relief but Bucky’s strong, and he holds fast. “Want me to fuck you so hard you feel me for a week?”

There it is. A groan is punched out of Steve at the sound of that and Bucky grins wickedly, but there’s sweetness behind his eyes. “Tell me, Stevie. You gotta tell me this is ok.”

It’s so fucking difficult for Steve to say any of it. It took a long time for him to come to terms with his preferences, but he’s not embarrassed by it anymore. He’s just rendered so fucking vulnerable by it that he hasn’t bottomed in years. Finally though, he manages, “Please Buck,” in a whisper. 

“Please what?” he murmurs gently, laying soft kisses into Steve’s neck.

“Please fuck me.”

It’s amazing that Bucky manages take his time opening Steve up the way he does; Steve can feel him trembling against his body.

“You’re good Buck, come on, fuck me already.”

“‘M not gonna hurt you.” His voice is rough and as unsteady as his hands.

“Need you, please, fuck me, come on -”

Bucky peppers comforting kisses along Steve’s legs, and finally, fucking _finally_ , rolls on a condom and fucks into Steve nice and slow. 

“Shit,” he breathes and Steve moans. “You feel amazing.”

“Move, Buck, please move.” 

“Easy, Cap,” he pants.

Steve rolls his hips up hard and grabs Bucky’s ass to pull him closer. “ _Now._

And Bucky keeps his promise; He fucks Steve, rough and reverent. They’re both a wreck, Bucky hovering over Steve and watching his face, making sure every thrust elicits the response he wants, and Steve is distantly worried that he’s spending so much time on Steve’s pleasure that he won’t enjoy himself, but it soon becomes evident that what gets Bucky off is watching Steve fall apart.

Which he does, making less and less noise as he gets closer, and in the end all he can do is gasp and choke out Bucky’s name. Bucky, who’s face is so open and vulnerable that Steve wants to cry. Bucky, who’s fucking him so hard Steve’s about to slam into the headboard, but is simultaneously running gentle fingers through Steve’s hair. Bucky, who he’s loved for so long. Bucky, who loves him back.

He comes with a shout and Bucky immediately shudders over him.

Lifetimes later he hears Bucky’s voice from miles away. “Steve. Steve? You ok?” Steve can’t quite find his voice yet, and Bucky sounds a little concerned. “Sweetheart, come on.”

“Did you just call me sweetheart?” Steve murmurs with a smile.

He hears a rush of air escape Bucky’s mouth then feels lips kiss over his eyelids and nose.

“You scared the shit outta me.”

“‘M sorry,” he whispers, finally opening his eyes. “I’m good. Great actually. It’s just been a really long time since...it just really makes me fall apart, you know? I don’t do it often. Don’t trust many people with that.”

He glances at Bucky to gauge his response since he hasn’t spoken. He’s smiling softly and rubbing his eyes, then wipes the dampness on the pillow. He almost gets away with it, but when he leans down for a kiss, Steve murmurs, “I love you,” and feels a tear fall from above and slide down his neck. Steve kisses the rest away.

\---

They’ve given themselves three days to plan, so Steve doesn’t bother setting an alarm. Bucky wakes him with a kiss in the dark to let him know he’s heading upstairs, but Steve passes right back out again.

Hours later, when the sun is high enough to warm the air in their apartment, Steve pulls on a pair of sweats and a zip up and heads back to Tony’s. It’s only eight, so he doesn’t think anyone will be up, but the itch to kiss Bucky is nearing unbearable. Between that and coffee, there’s nowhere else to go.

He is not expecting what he walks in on. 

Natasha is standing tall in the center of Tony’s living room in nothing but a tank top and black booty shorts, next to Bucky who’s wearing nothing but a pair of Steve’s pajama pants, and they’re both holding knives.

“That’s beautiful,” Nat is saying. “Show me again.”

Bucky obliges, casually flipping the knife in his palm then over his knuckles and around his hand again. Natasha copies him accurately and he gives her a warm smile. 

“Good. Show me one of yours.”

Chewing her lip she thinks for a moment then grins. She tosses the knife almost to the skylight, impressive considering Tony’s lofted ceilings. With ease, she catches it at the hilt, flips it so the blade rests between her fingers, and in one smooth movement, turns around completely and hurls it in Steve’s direction.

He jumps backwards with a shout but the blade buries itself in the wall a foot from where he’d been standing. She grins at him as Bucky says, “Oh, I like that one,” and mimics her effortlessly. He throws the knife so accurately it knocks Nat’s blade out of the wall and she whistles lowly. 

“Nice.”

“Are you done throwing knives at me?” Steve mutters. 

Nat puts a hand on her hip. “Only if you’re making french toast.”

He nods an affirmative, crossing toward the kitchen but pauses to comment, “You know, you two are awfully distracting.” It’s true, opposites complimenting each other so beautifully it’s art. Natasha’s porcelain skin next to Bucky’s caramel tan is tantalizing. They’re both muscular, but Natasha is all smooth lines and gentle curves, where Buck is hard and lithe. Steve is doing a pretty good job of not getting a boner in the middle of the living room, but then Nat stretches, arching her back like a sleepy kitten, and Bucky bites his bottom lip at the sight.

“Oh my god,” Steve mutters, and disappears into the kitchen. He’s pretty sure he hears them high five, and chooses to ignore it. 

It’s a good thing Tony’s filthy rich because every single one of them eats like a goddamn titan, Natasha included, so it takes enough food to feed an army to make it through a meal. Steve makes three loaves of bread worth of french toast, four packs of bacon, a skillet full of scrambled eggs, and then peels a dozen oranges, and he knows they’ll still eat a shit ton at lunch. 

“Amazing!” Tony exclaims, as he enters. By now, Nat and Buck are perched at the counter drinking coffee and speaking alternately in Spanish and English depending on whether they’re talking shit about Steve or not. He’s given up trying to fight it. 

“How do you even know Spanish?” Steve mutters as Tony helps himself to what should be an embarrassing amount of bread, but he just looks pleased about it. 

“Remember Marta?”

“Of course.”

“She was my next door neighbor as a kid, babysat me ‘n’ Becca when we were little.” 

“Bacon!” Clint yells and any semblance of normal conversation goes right out the window. 

It’s a super weird morning, but wonderful. Sam and Clint discuss hand to hand combat, leaping across the kitchen floor with folded up slices of french toast in their hands. Natasha logs into her computer and she and Tony start working on taking out Stane’s security system. Bucky disappears at some point, but Steve finds him on the balcony, cigarette in one hand, camera in the other.

“You know it’s not super safe for you to be out here.”

Bucky sighs. “I know. I just needed a minute, you know?”

“Of course,” Steve says quickly, “I’ll be inside if you-”

“Steve?”

“Huh?”

“Stay.”

“Alright.” 

They stare down at the city, shoulder to shoulder. Occasionally, Bucky will take a picture, but mostly they just stand there, almost shivering in the wind. It’s confusing to feels so happy while gearing up for battle, but Steve feels better than he has in years.

“Your friends are incredible,” Bucky says finally.

“Your friends now, too.”

“I can’t believe…” He doesn’t finish, but Steve knows.

“What Nat said about us? It’s true. None of us is gonna judge. You’re not alone in this Buck.”

He makes a broken little noise before saying, “If all this is ever over-”

“When all this is over,” Steve corrects, staring straight ahead, but he can practically hear Bucky’s eyeroll.

“Wh-when all this is over, will...will you go out to dinner with me? I mean I realize it’s kind of out of order…”

“Yeah, a little,” he laughs. “But yes. I would be honored.”

“Who says that?” Buck teases, but Steve just shrugs. 

“Your boyfriend, I hope.”

Bucky doesn’t respond, but he links his fingers through Steve’s and smiles at the skyline, small and private and breathtakingly beautiful.


	9. Chapter 9

The time slips by too quickly, spent in Tony’s living room, strategizing and researching and laughing and eating. Tony tells bad jokes while hacking into national databases, searching for any extra dirt on Stane. When Clint can’t focus anymore he spends stretches of time shooting quarters into a coffee mugs scattered around the room and Sam does sets of push ups in between memorizing the lay out of Stane’s compound. Every hour or so Natasha rises from her cross-legged perch and Steve doesn’t pay any attention to it until he realizes that she gets up to dance, stretching her body in time with the music on her headphones. It only lasts three or so minutes each time, probably the length of a song, but Steve thinks she’s mesmerizing. 

His heart actually stops though when Bucky gets up from where he’s pressed against Steve’s side and walks up to Nat, pulls the headphone from her ear, and whispers something. Her whole face lights up and she nods, tugging on the sleeve of his hoodie and laughing. Rolling his eyes, he tugs it off rendering himself shirtless, while she plugs her phone into the speaker system.

There’s silence for a moment, and everyone has stopped pretending to do work in favor of watching them. Then the music starts. 

Bucky stands still and tall as the guitar begins, and Natasha crosses to him artfully with long strides. She doesn’t slow down as she nears him, though, and an instant before they smack into one another Bucky raises his arms to catch her hip and hand, and they’re off.

Steve knows his jaw is on the floor, but can’t bring himself to care. He didn’t know Bucky could dance, although if he attended events for Stane it would certainly make sense to be trained in it… He’s insanely graceful, and it’s astonishing to think that someone with such deadly skills could embody art so effortlessly. They move lightly across the floor. There’s a sensuality to their dance, but it’s sweet too, almost sad. When Bucky lifts her it looks effortless on both their parts, arms like wings. Spinning, catch and release of embrace and then Bucky tosses her up and catches her around her thighs, slowly lowering her back down as the song ends.

The room explodes into applause, but Bucky holds still while Nat says something in his ear. Whatever it is makes him grin broadly but his jaw twitches and he swipes at his eyes. 

Everyone heads to bed early the night of the siege, and Steve finds himself a little sorrowful that they’ll all be parting ways when this is over. It’s nice to spend time with people who understand how the world can fall away into hell for minutes at a time, know how the everything changes after battle. No need for explanations or excuses. As they disperse from the living room, it seems as if the rest of the group is just as loathe to disband their little family as Steve is. Tony and Sam both hug Steve good night, and Natasha koala’s onto Bucky for an entire conversation. 

Back in their apartment, Steve and Bucky brush their teeth and wash their faces, and as Bucky starts to change into pjs Steve tugs the shirt from his hands and throws it on a chair by the door. 

After tonight, everything would change. If all went well, Stane would be dead and Bucky would be free by morning. If something went wrong, Steve could have even more blood on his hands. Either way, he needs to do this first.

Slowly, he slides to his knees and tugs off Bucky’s socks, then runs his palms up to the zipper of his jeans, smiling as Buck’s breath catches. If they live through tomorrow there will be plenty of time to take it slow, but for now he gently strips Bucky the rest of the way and bites a kiss into the crease of his thigh.

“Christ, Steve,” Bucky groans, and goes easy when Steve pushes him back onto the bed and settles between his knees. Steve licks his palm and starts to stroke Buck nice and slow, watching his chest rise and fall in tight little bursts throwing shadows from the low light to dance across his body, and thinks of the first time they met.

“I was gone on you the first time I saw you.”

Bucky groans and sits up on his elbows. “On the fire escape?”

“Nah,” Steve murmurs, slicking his fingertips with precum and using it to ease the way for his hand. “Before. At the party. You were laughing. You looked like a work of art.”

“Steve,” Buck whispers. “You can’t just go around sayin’ shit like that.”

“Why not?” Steve challenges. “It’s the truth.” 

Bucky covers his face with his hands and slouches back into the bed. “Oh my god.”

“Hiding already?” Steve teases. “I’m pretty sure you’re gonna want to watch this.”

He waits until Bucky’s looking again, then swallows him down. “Fuck!” Whenever Bucky closes his eyes or looks away Steve lets up, slowing his pace until Bucky focuses back in on him, on them, and it has him shaking in no time. 

“I like this,” Steve says, replacing his mouth with his hand for a moment and running the other palm up Bucky’s body. 

“What?” he gasps.

“Seeing you like this.”

“‘S never been like this...before.” He seems to recognize the intimacy of the comment halfway out of his mouth and it seems to terrify him. Steve can empathize, and he slides up Bucky’s body to kiss him deeply. 

“Me neither, Buck,” he promises.

Bucky opens him up while tracing paths over Steve’s skin with his tongue. Sometimes he licks over Steve’s cock but then moves on, sucking marks over his hipbones, biting at his ribs, worshiping every inch of skin he can get his mouth on.

“You’re killin’ me,” Steve gasps, but Bucky just smiles and continues to take his time. Patience is not Steve’s forte, but he lasts a remarkably long time before he rolls them both and sinks down onto Bucky’s cock, provoking muttered curses in English and Spanish and Bucky gripping Steve’s hips hard enough to bruise.

Steve leans over, caging the other man in with his arms, and rides him deep and slow. Buck runs reverent hands over Steve’s body as he moves. “Don’t you go gettin’ yourself killed tomorrow, ok?” Bucky growls.

“Same to you. You owe me dinner.”

“Fuck you.”

“You are.”

“Steve,” he groans, and Steve’s laugh turns into a growl as Bucky grins and pistons his hips up. “Not so cocky now huh?”

Steve opens his mouth to argue but Bucky pushes him back and pins him down, linking their fingers together and driving into him. Every thrust punches little gasps from Steve, but Bucky seems determined to make him lose his mind. He shifts his hips and Steve shouts. Perfect.

From there it’s a race to the finish, and when Steve comes Bucky actually moans, “Oh thank fuck,” before he pants his way through climax.

They fall asleep curled around each other, but before they do Bucky mutters, “You know I love you, right?” It’s the first time he’s said it, and from what Steve can see of his face, he’s staring down and chewing his lip, like he’s nervous that Steve didn’t know. Or that Steve doesn’t love him back. Which is ridiculous.”

“Mm-hm. And I love you.”

“Don’t go forgettin’ ok? No matter what happens.”

Steve presses a kiss to his forehead. “I got you, Buck. I’m with you ‘til the end of the line.”

\--

This is always where Steve has felt most comfortable, at the front of a fight. They somehow made it through the front gate with a fake ID badge, and now he, Nat, Clint, and Bucky are sprinting full speed toward the front doors. There are dozens of guards, but Clint and Bucky pick off the really dangerous ones, and he and Nat disarm the rest. Low kill rate is less of a priority on this one.

Nat sails through the air and rips the last guard to the ground with her legs around his neck just as the doors begin to open. She slides a remote-detonated charge down the hall and keeps running.

“Good man, Tony,” Steve breathes, and they’re off. They sprint through corridors, killing off guards as they go, led by Tony’s voice in their ear. 

“Left, LEFT!” 

“Stop yelling at us!” Clint yells, slapping another charge to the wall as he sprints past. They all skid at the turn, but make it left towards wherever Stane is located. There’s no doubt he’s aware that his compound is under attack, but Tony and Nat hacked into the security feed so Steve isn’t worried. They’ll get where they need to be. 

Bucky has been silent since they left the Tower. Before they had left their apartment he held Steve’s face between his palms and kissed him, deeply and lovingly, and whispered, “Whatever happens, thank you.” 

And Steve’s words failed him, as they so often do, but when they kissed he thinks Bucky understood. 

The doors ahead of them open as Tony says, “Straight ahead and up the stairs two floors.” There’s a pause, then he shouts, “Wait! Don’t -”

A pack of gunman burst from the stairwell door and the four of them duck behind a door just in time. Stone-faced, Bucky pushes Steve back so that he has the best access around the door. There are eight guards, and they’re sprinting, Steve can see them through the crack in the frame, but Bucky fires off eight rounds and they drop one after another. Silence falls.

“Holy shit,” Clint whispers, but Bucky just attaches another charge to the wall and grits out, “Come on.” Steve’s grateful, but wary. This seems almost too easy.

Up the stairs, and they burst out onto a long room just as there’s a massive explosion in the distance. They feel it shake the building. Tony’s voice through the earpieces is uncharacteristically calm as he says, “Someone’s detonating the devices you planted. They’ve only done the outer two so far, but it seems like they’re working their way in. Towards you.”

The four of them take off at a dead run away from the stairwell. “Working on back hacking. If Stane’s there he’s in the office at the end of the room you’re in now.” Stane had let them in and waited ‘til they trapped themselves inside. Was he even here? Bucky pulls ahead at Tony’s words, by almost a hundred yards, an impressive lead considering the athleticism of their group.

“James,” a deep voice rings out, and then the charge in the stairwell blows. Steve lunges at Nat, screams for Bucky, and then the world goes dark.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for brief emotional abuse and canon typical violence.

“-Exactly did you think would happen?”

Steve’s whole body hurts.

“I just-” Bucky sounds terrible.

“What? Your pretty boyfriend would sweep you off your feet?” It’s a different voice, familiar... Rumlow. Steve tests the restraints at his shoulders, wrists, and ankles. Tight and biting, like zipties, but stronger.

“He’s not -”

“I knew, you know. When you bought all those paintings back. That had to be most of the money you made these past few years.” 

“Why didn’t you say anything?

“And ruin the fun?” Stane laughs. 

“You’re so fucked up,” Bucky mutters.

“Oh, Bucky boy,” Rumlow spits. “You shoulda kept your mouth shut.” A crack rings out in the empty space, then a hiss. 

“S-sorry,” Buck whispers shakily, and Steve wants to kill someone. He finally forces his eyes open.

“You’re going to beg for death before I’m done with you.” Rumlow lashes out again, then kicks Buck in the gut, and he crumples, grabbing Rumlow’s leg as they fall, yanking him to the floor. He lands three good punches before the click of a gun cocking echoes in the space, and Steve goes from rejoicing to terror.

“I’m a reasonable man,” Stane explains as he walks forward, firearm trained on Buck. Rumlow rolls away and Steve is pleased to see him wipe blood off his face. “I need something done.”

“What?” Bucky’s voice is a hollow ghost. 

“Well. You see there’re these fuckin’ _kids_ ” he spits, gesturing, “Who’ve been getting in the way of a number of my projects. They cost me millions.” 

The plural makes Steve look around, and sure enough, Clint is strung up too, still unconscious, but he doesn’t seem to be bleeding too badly. No sign of Natasha.

“Here’s the deal, kiddo. You’re going to kill them. And in return, I’ll have Brock kill you quickly.”

Bucky stiffens, then whispers, “No.”

“No?” Stane laughs, holding out the gun. “What a shame, James. You know what I can do. That pretty back of yours is full of my artwork.”

The comment twists Steve so deeply that he gags reflexively, and the motion draws Stane’s attention.

“Oh how nice!” he caws. “So glad you could join us, Captain Rogers.”

Steve spits blood and bile to the floor. “Fuck you.” 

“Ah, ah, ah, sticks and stones, kiddo.” He moves towards Steve slowly and deliberately, and Bucky lurches forward. 

“Leave him alone!” 

With a laugh, Stane turns back. “Are you his keeper? Or...no...his lover,” he finishes contemplatively. “How sweet, but - do you really think he wants _you_?” Bucky flinches, as if slapped, and looks up at Steve, face ashen, but Stane isn’t finished. “I mean, how many people have you killed? A hundred at least.”

Steve watches as Bucky curls in on himself. He still hasn’t gotten up off the floor from where he’d tackled Rumlow, and now he pulls his limbs in, wrapping them around his torso like he’s trying to hold his body together. Stane had been his protector and reason for living for a decade. The evil sonofabitch had pimped him out and cut him up and beaten him down.The psychological abuse alone must have been horrific. And Bucky had come here anyway. When Steve had spoken about doing what was right, Bucky listened, and even though he was terrified, he followed. 

Just like Steve’s men back in Iraq. 

His voice trembles when he shouts, but Bucky hears it. “A hundred and seventy six!”

Rumlow and Stane both startle, and Bucky doesn’t move from the fetal position he’s in, but Steve keeps talking. “The number of people I’ve killed. Know that I’ve killed. I’m sure it’s more, but that’s the number my mind keeps around to torture me with if I let it wander.”

The knot of Bucky’s body has eased just slightly when Stane snarls, “You’re a damn thief, too!”

“So’m I. I stole shit my whole childhood, Buck, food, clothes...I had to keep my ma ‘n’ I alive. You were just doing the same thing.” Steve catches Bucky’s eye and grins at him. “We did what we had to do.”.

Stane must see the hope blossoming in Bucky’s eyes because the next accusation comes out closer to a scream, and it’s directed to Steve this time.

“He’s a fucking whore!” 

“No, he’s a fucking hero!” Steve roars. “He survived!” He’s struggling against the restraints in earnest, not giving a shit that he’s now the target of Rumlow’s handgun. “He built a life in spite of you!” His feet are free, but the upper body restraints are stronger. “He had friends, he created art, he’s a hundred times the man you’ll ever be.” Left hand free, and they really are idiots because they didn’t check his boot. He gets only an instant of eye contact with Bucky, but that’s all it takes, and he’s using a trick Bucky taught him to whip the blade with deadly accuracy to pierce cleanly through Rumlow’s left eye socket. 

In the same moment Bucky lunges at Stane, Steve gets his other arm free. He pounces onto Stane’s legs and pins them there while Bucky pounds his face in. He pauses for a moment when Steve presses Stane’s dropped gun into Buck’s hand. 

“You piece of shit,” Stane gasps, still struggling against them both. “You ruin everything you touch.”

It breaks Steve’s heart, that that’s how Bucky has seen himself for years, but Stane is remarkably strong and he doesn’t have any extra limbs or breath for comforting.

But Bucky just looks over his shoulder at Steve and gives him a small smile, real and tired and brave before leaning forward again, and Steve hears the click of the gun.

“You’re wrong.”

\--

Luck was on their side, for fucking once. Nat woke up to the sound of Bucky shooting Stane and dug herself out of the rubble to cut Clint free. Guards came charging in as the three of them dragged his body to the roof where Sam nonchalantly landed the damn helicopter he’d borrowed from Tony, picked them up, and cleanly blew the building to high fucking heaven. 

They made it back to Tony’s, who spent an hour shouting about how not-dead everyone was and why they should have a party about it before taking a phone call with the Secretary of Defense to explain why one of his helicopters had blown up a building. 

Natasha took care of Clint, Sam promptly passed out on Tony’s couch, and Steve lead a weary looking Bucky back to their apartment.

Into the quiet of the room he says, “I’m proud of you,” and Bucky sighs.

“Thanks.”

“You did good today, Buck.”

“Almost got you killed.”

“Nah. I did that all on my own. Come on.” 

In the bathroom, he kneels at Bucky’s feet, unlaces his boots, and tugs them off his feet. Strips off Bucky’s belt and jeans and keeps working upwards until there’s a pile of black clothing on the floor. 

“Steve -”

“Don’t tell me how you don’t deserve this, or I don’t have to, or whatever. I want to. Ok?”

Bucky’s eyes are huge and he’s shaking a little, but he gives a small smile. “Ok.”

Steve strips down and rubs Bucky’s back as they wait for the shower to warm. They let the hot water roll down over sore muscles, washing away blood and dirt with gentle hands. 

“You, uh, you know you saved my life, right?” Bucky murmurs as he washes soot from a cut on Steve’s shoulder. 

“Right back - ah! - atcha.”

“No I’m - I’m being serious.”

Steve turns to him, frowning. “You think I’m not?”

Bucky shrugs and smooths his thumb over the wound once more. “I mean, you have your shit together, dunno what there would have been for me to save…”

Steve doesn’t have the words to spell it out. He doesn’t know how to explain he wasn’t living until they met, that nothing will ever be the same again, so all he says is, “No Buck, I...I didn’t.”

Head tilted, Bucky scrutinizes Steve’s face for a long moment. He must see something, perhaps the truth of Steve’s words, or maybe the fear, but regardless, he leans in and kisses him.

Kisses him slow and sweet at first, relearning the curves of his mouth and how they fit together. Steve cups Bucky’s head, fingers twining in his hair to hold him firmly. “You’re amazing,” Steve murmurs, sliding his lips down the column of Bucky’s throat. He feels the hands on his hips tighten, and he smiles.

“Steve-”

“So incredibly brave.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” He sucks a mark into Bucky’s neck soothes it with his tongue. “To go with us...I can’t imagine how hard that was. And now you’re free.” 

“Free.” Bucky repeats. A broken laugh escapes his lips and Steve kisses it away. “He’s dead. I’m free.” The words come slowly, like he’s convincing himself, and then his eyes focus, sparkling. “Steve. I’m free.” 

Steve grins. “You are. How would you like to celebrate your new found freedom?” 

“Wanna fuck you through the mattress, for starters.” 

“Oh my god,” Steve groans. It’s embarrassing that his knees actually buckle a little at that, but Bucky doesn’t give him time to think about it, just steps out of the shower and extends a hand behind him. They stumble to the bedroom, handsy and laughing, and next to the bed Bucky orders, “Bend over. Let me see you.”

“Make me,” Steve challenges. Without pause, Buck pulls some impressive moves and gets Steve turned around and pressed into the mattress in seconds. Steve squirms under Bucky’s weight, but when he feels the hard length of Bucky’s cock pressing against his ass he relents and whispers, “Buck- come on.”

Bucky insists on licking and biting up and down Steve’s spine and the back of his thighs first, but eventually opens him up, slick fingers working so slow that Steve’s fucking himself back on Bucky’s hands before he’s done. When he replaces his fingers with his cock Steve whimpers and fists the covers, but Bucky keeps going, knows that if Steve needs a break he’ll say so.

“God, Buck,” he pants. 

“Gorgeous.” 

Steve blushes, Bucky can see it where his face is turned sideways against the comforter. He slides his hand up Steve’s back and into his hair and pulls as he fucks into him, murmuring praise. 

They’re both losing their minds a little, but it feels like coming home. There’s an anxiety, a desperation today that wasn’t present before. The possibility of losing one another is still too close, and it’s evident in the way Bucky’s hands refuse to leave Steve’s skin, in the way they say one another’s names. Bucky can tell Steve’s getting worked up, sobbing a little when he shifts the angle, and pulls out to roll him to his back. “Steve, baby look at me.”

Steve shudders and opens his eyes, holding Bucky’s gaze as he curls in, wrapping his hands around Steve’s shoulders for leverage and fucking him hard and fast. It’s rough and perfect and Steve arches up into him, falling apart.

“Come on Stevie. Come for me. It’s ok. I’m right here. Thaaat’s it, so good for me…” 

They’re too tired for this, for sure, Bucky blacks out onto Steve’s chest when he comes, and wakes up on the bed wrapped in his arms.

“What a way to celebrate,” he murmurs into Steve’s collarbone.

“You should move in with me.” It’s abrupt enough that they both glance at each other, and Steve hopes he doesn’t look as nervous as he feels. “I mean if you want. I just - I’d like to see you...more. All the time, actually.”

It’s Bucky’s turn to look unimaginably shy as he nods into Steve’s neck. “Yeah, ok.”

Steve grins and kisses his forehead, but plays it cool, laying back on the pillow and closing his eyes. They’re still for so long he almost falls asleep when Bucky surges up and kisses him soundly muttering, “I fuckin’ love you.”

\--

“This is so fucking cool,” Clint mutters. 

“It really is,” Bucky agrees.

Natasha’s got her arms folded, looked calm and collected, but even she smiles up at the enormous building and nods. 

It’s the grand opening of the new VA center. In the wake of the Stane incident, there was quite a bit of paperwork, but insane amounts of money from Tony smoothed things over. He also helped get the center up and running, and he looks sweet and pleased in a way Steve doesn’t usually see, arm around Pepper and looking out across the sea of people.

Bucky reaches over and grabs Steve to pull him into a kiss as Sam cuts the ribbon and Clint groans. “Really?”

Nat slides her arm around his waist and bites his shoulder through the leather jacket. “Don’t be a grump.”

“I’m not - mmpf!” He stops talking when she lunges up to kiss him.

Sam emerges from the crowd, having elbowed his way back to them, and high fives Steve as hard as he can in an expression of overwhelming excitement. “This. Is. So. Cool.”

“Good work, Sam,” Steve smiles.

“Oh shut up Captain Sunshine, you basically blowing the mayor got this damn thing built.”

Steve shrugs. “And your persistence. And Nat’s sweet talking. And Tony’s money. And Clint and Buck’s muscle. Team effort.”

“Holy shit, you’re so gross.” Clint sounds appalled at his optimism.

“Fuck you.”

“Someone else’s job now I’m afraid.”

“Damn right,” Bucky adds. 

Before the shit talking can really start though, a deep voice from behind them calls, “Steve Rogers?”

Wheeling around, Steve sees a tall man, dark skin, black jacket, and a wicked scar over his eye. Steve trusts him though, for whatever reason, so he responds. “That’s me.”

The guy eyes him then scans the group: Tony and Sam stand shoulder to shoulder where they were ganging up on Steve. Natasha’s riding piggyback on Clint, and Buck is tucked tightly against Steve’s side. If he finds them wanting, Steve doesn’t give a shit. This is his family.

“Is this the group that took out Obadiah Stane?”

Steve nods curtly. What the fuck is this? They’d already cleared everything with Tony’s lawyers. But the guy doesn’t look put off in the slightest. In fact, he looks...happy? If that’s an expression that his rugged face ever wears. He smiles at least and extends a hand. 

“I’m Nick Fury. I’d like to hire you. All of you.” 

Bucky looks uncomfortable, like maybe he’s not included in the group, but Fury points at him. “Especially you, Mr. Barnes. I’ve been hard pressed to find a man with half your talents.”

“Oh. Th-thank you.”

“Here’s my card.” He holds it out to Steve. “Call me. Or I’ll find you.” 

Steve doesn’t doubt it. “Ok?”

“Have a nice day,” Fury says in a disturbingly calm voice, and when Steve looks up from the card, he’s gone, disappeared into the crowd. 

“That was fucking weird,” Tony says.

Nat adjusts her arms around Clint’s shoulders and says, “He’s CIA. I’ve seen him before. Could be a good gig. Besides... I wouldn’t hate seeing you fools more often.”

“Can we eat?” Bucky mutters, but he’s smiling at Nat and swats her ass as Clint walks the two of them towards the sidewalk. 

“Hell yeah, can we go to Marta’s?” Steve asks. 

“Tacos!” Sam bellows. “Excellent.”

Bucky grins up at Steve, fucking captivating in the spring light. “Last one there has to pay,” he screams abruptly, and takes off at a dead run. Sam takes off next, but Tony and Pepper just stroll along. Steve supposes they have the money for it, after all. “Your boyfriend’s a punk!” Nat shouts as Clint runs past.

“I know!” 

He jogs after them, but when he rounds the corner into the park, he stumbles on the most ridiculous sight. Sam and Bucky are on the ground trying to drag the other backward in a desperate attempt to be the first to Marta’s, Clint trips over them, sending both him and Nat tumbling to the ground, and everyone starts cussing. 

Steve is laughing so hard he has to stop running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! This story turned out completely different than I'd planned, but I like it, and I hope you did too!
> 
> Visit me at seasless.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from this beautiful quote, which in this instance I politely and vehemently disagree with. “All your questions can be answered, if that is what you want. But once you learn your answers, you can never unlearn them.” ― Neil Gaiman, American Gods  
> \--  
> Beyond The Rain and other Kuroda paintings:  
> http://www.azumagallery.com/#!shigeki-kuroda/c5hv


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